Dance on the Brink
by Spotlight Effect
Summary: "Really, out of everything, not to be a hero, not to solve global climate change; all he wants is flat." AU Arthur/Alfred Ivan/Alfred Ivan/Arthur. Anorexia and bulimia centered.
1. Counting

**Author's Note: AU. Arthur/Alfred, Ivan/Alfred, Ivan/Arthur. PG-13 rated threesome, I guess you could say. Perhaps **_**'love triangle'**_** works better.**

**Detailed anorexia and bulimia. **_**At least two parts**_**, so don't get your panties in a twist. T for now, but rating may go up (I truly hope you're all not that sensitive about language). **

**NOTICE: I've reuploaded to fix some blaring grammar issues and what not. Just FYI.**

* * *

A single McDonald's Big Mac: five hundred and ninety calories (over half of which are fat). Eleven grams of saturated fats, forty-seven grams of carbohydrates. Disaccharides, polysaccharides, complex lipids and a few stray amino acids to make up the twenty-four grams of sad proteins. Few, if any, healthy fatty acids. Almost half his daily value of sodium rides in this one grotesque hamburger, alone and pungent; the only other minerals are flecks calcium and iron. All of that not counting the large fries, large Coca-Cola, and the added dressings.

Within a standard Dairy Queen Blizzard (Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough variety) lie over six-hundred calories and sixty-eight percent of his daily saturated fat value. There are one hundred and two grams of carbohydrates (even more monosaccharides and carbon chains and edges of hydrogen) and two hundred and thirty calories of fat, plain and simple. Sure, there are three hundred and twenty _milli_grams of calcium; sure, there is less than one milligram of Vitamin C.

This is a daily occurrence, a combination of the aforementioned. Ice creams, sodas, candies, breads (oh lord toast is a life line when he doesn't even have time to stop at Wendy's or Burger King). Milk he'll drink if it's chocolate; yogurt is just . . . just––does pudding count as yogurt? Or maybe that rainbow kids' yogurt with that crazy rabbit on the carton.

Starbucks. Starbucks doesn't count as a food, it's just a morning thing––a wake-up drink that gets him going, and those calories are separate, right? Because an iced vanilla latte is just one-hundred and fifty calories (if he gets a Tall, which usually doesn't happen. Who drinks something that small anyway?) and it just _runs_ right through him, _streamlines._Coffee's just coffee. Nothing to worry about.

Maybe those McMuffins count for something. Three hundred calories or something, with seventy-eight percent of his daily cholesterol. And––and the saturated fats . . . oh _god_ there's twenty-five percent . . .

But that's all okay. Every week (or so) he gets on the treadmill or goes and lifts weights in his gym, and every Tuesday he eats a (few) servings of Cheerios. Life is good. He's thin, he's happy, and sometimes he can breathe when there isn't all that shit in his lungs and his heart doesn't hurt.

And so he weighs himself.

One hundred and sixty-five pounds. He checks his body mass index, compares his weight in stones, kilograms, and pounds, and finds that yes, he is completely at a healthy weight. But––but he's so, so, _unattractive._ He can feel the fat in his fingers as he clutches the underside of his forearms. The sides of his ribs, the backs of his knees, his _ass_oh good god. He wants flat. Really, out of everything, not to be a hero, not to solve global climate change, all he wants is flat.

* * *

"No, sorry Arthur, I really can't take 'em. It's just, my hands are full and––" Alfred shifts his briefcase from hand to hand and juggles the over-sized (stainless steel) water bottle about. They walk along the busy streets surrounding on of the office buildings their firm uses.

"Oh, well then, uhm, I suppose I'll just let them off to Matthew," Arthur replies.

"––it's not that I don't like them, jeez, you know I love your food, I'm just in a rush and yeah." A lame finish for a lame reason. "I'll call you sometime, no worries." And then he's off.

Arthur stands outside the government building, his foreign relations tag still dangling from the lapel of his pressed jacket. He looks after Alfred, dumping unopened containers of office-supplied foods into the waste bin at the corner. Doughnuts, coffee, a bagel, half of a turkey sandwich . . .

Alone, thin, blond, and on the street corner, that Arthur Kirkland. One of the luckiest bastards of the bunch: he doesn't have to try.

* * *

It has been five weeks since even a glance at a fast food establishment. No more chocolates, no more bread. No more burned and charred scones from Arthur, no more late-night bar hops with Juan or Andrés. At Matthew's birthday he didn't touch a single dish; he almost cried when he denied himself the huge cake that was customary for his own celebration.

Five weeks and he barely ate. It was amazing how much of his diet was bread and sugar and just clumps of fat fat _fat_. Not good enough.

What was that cereal that made people lose weight? Who the hell knew, but he ate it religiously. Measure the flakes, minimal milk, no coffee, no eggs, no bread, no butter, no eating until two-thirty in the afternoon. Then a sad little excuse of a granola bar from that same cereal brand. Two hours at the gym _every single day_(what was that, like, seventy hours of sweat and running shoes?).

Still, he didn't eat celery or lettuce. That shit's disgusting.

Wake up, count calories, eat as little as possible, and then work off all that cellulite. "If I can grab it, it means there's too much," he says. "I hate my back, it's just, ugh, gross. Fat fat fat."

Five weeks, thirty pounds. But that's not _enough_.

* * *

Now, Ivan is a completely different story. He's tall, and that alone gives him license to weigh more. But it's not like he's actually _weighing_ more, no no no, he's just––oh _god_. If he could be that muscular . . . Alfred doesn't know what he would do with himself. Probably eat something, or––

They all sit together in some ritzy restaurant (it's some foreign name he can't quite place; he's dizzy beyond belief right now) sipping wines or clearer alcohols and making small talk with business partners and other foreign relations ambassadors and secretaries. There are baskets of bread and platters of cheeses (who _does _that?) and the glasses are bumping into one another.

Arthur sits on his right, Ivan to his left and oh _god_ this is horrible and wonderful all at once because Alfred has this tendency to _lean _to the left. But, well, he's not that good looking yet (he can still grab so much skin and god knows what on his shoulder blades) and he doesn't want to––

"Alfred," comes Arthur's lilting accent. "Alfred, you look like shite." He turns slightly in his chair and crosses his ankles. "I'm serious, do you need something to drink or . . . ?"

"No, really, I'm _okay_, would you just stop––" he stops briefly to catch his breath "––Please?" He rubs his hands together under the table and he feels the thin waxiness. He's been working hard lately, cutting out his extra granola bars and replacing it with glasses of lemon water.

There is a last disparaging look between the two of them (more Arthur than Alfred, but the thoughts are still shared) before they both break apart. Plates clink against cutlery, and a lewd comment is made somewhere down the line of chairs that is vile enough for Arthur to bristle and shoot a piece of bread (with far to much stealth) down the table and into an unguarded wine glass.

Alfred looks mournfully at the plates of food that come to the table in a rush, all waiters and aprons and menus folded neatly under arms. He can't imagine the sheer amount of calories and monomers and fatty acids that are chaining up to make all the pasta and sauces and whatever else is lying on those plates. Carbs, starches, and just sugar. Fat under his skin.

And so in a fit of reluctance (and perhaps wisdom, he's not so sure) Alfred orders the most basic salad available and juggles the lettuce about his plate. Disgusting.

Alfred can feel Arthur's green eyes prodding at his brain in his peripheral. In revolt he turns away and with more vigor tosses about the spinach and feta cheese on his plate. If that's a dish of pesto Arthur is trying to scoot towards him he'll stab that man with his fork.

But he doesn't want to make a scene because Ivan is right there. And looking at him. And . . . his salad suddenly became very interesting with all those types of lettuces (butter lettuce he'd be willing to try, after all, butter . . .) being skewered by this dessert fork.

He feels a light touch on his elbow (he makes the Ls under the table to reaffirm) and looks up to his left, eyes moving from eyes to nose, back to eyes, and then settling on full eyebrows. "Ah, you are . . . well, Alfred?" Accent. Yes yes _yes_. "Do you not usually eat dinner meals?"

No, because they have just strings of sugars and lipids and they just store energy that–– "Oh, well, yeah, I'm fine, uhm, Ivan. Yeah. I ate before I came. It's all good."

Ivan looks confused, be it from his English skills or Alfred's strict evasion of directly answering anything. Ivan quirks an eyebrow at him and sips from his glass. "Very well."

Arthur shoots Alfred another look. He finally catches Alfred and holds his gaze hostage, grabbing his knee under the table. He leans in and whispers in his ear with his accent thick like molasses: "You're using the wrong fork, love."

* * *

They're kissing again. Short, sweet kisses that make Alfred's fingers tingle and stomach flip. Arthur's mouth always tastes like green tea and ginger mints and it's so nice to be able to taste an actually appeasing flavor with exactly no calories. No threads of starches, no addition to the tiny layer of fat on his stomach. It's a truly beautiful thing.

He's leaning against the kitchen counter, Arthur snug against him, with foreheads touching and fingers zippered up. Hmm, days like _this._

Behind them (being hopefully crushed by the pockets of Alfred's jeans) is Alfred's list of calories and foods he's cut from his diet entirely. It's growing faster than the grass in his heavily watered front yard.

"Hey," Arthur nuzzles into his neck, and Alfred's head bows and follows. "I miss you," he says. "Sometimes I wonder where you go, and––you're so different now." He puts a few kisses on Alfred's shoulder. The skin feels clammy and rough. His mouth keeps moving over his neck and collar, giving butterfly kisses to every inch he can find.

"Hmmm . . ." Alfred can only give a choppy exhale and let go of Arthur's fingers to grab onto his waist more clumsily than he intended. "Yeah. Too long." The world is getting grey around the edges. Arthur lifts up his head and kisses the corner of his mouth. Chapped lips meet a lightly glossed mouth (just to moisturize, not to be flashy) once, twice, thrice, four times in a row before breaking apart.

Alfred can feel Arthur's eyelashes on his neck. He opens his mouth to comment––

A loud gastric interruption.

––and closes it on the line of Alfred's jaw. There's a sigh through his nose. "Bloody––Do you need me to make you anything?" Irritation crawls into his voice.

"Oh, no, jeez Arthur," Alfred cuts him off with a watered down squeeze to the waist. "I––I'm _fine_. I don't need you to burn all my food and try to force-feed it to me." He's shaking as he tries to fend Arthur off, cracking his façade with ease.

"Bollocks." But he does nothing to act on it. Instead, he leans up and kisses him shyly twice more. Arthur kneads into Alfred's stomach, the minimal cushion of fat and skin giving ever-so-slightly as the massage dips into a clothed navel. Alfred makes a groan and a purr, loving the feeling but regretting the state of his stomach.

Arthur pats his belly. "Been going to that dreadful fast-food place again, haven't you." It's not a question, nor is it a passing comment. Observation, statement. He checks his wristwatch and tuts at himself.

Alfred pretends to not be bothered by the implication. "Duty calls?"

"I'm afraid so." Arthur is reluctant (once he gets into his more loving mood he has a hard time getting out of it again) and they share an Eskimo kiss; Alfred's knees and stomach go weak and tremble. "Eat. Something." And so he grabs his coat and leaves.

As soon as the door clicks and he hears Arthur's town car drive off he fishes the list out of his back pocket and writes down a hasty 'ginger snaps and breath mints.' He doesn't bother with putting down tea because, well, only Arthur would drink _tea_.

The paper is yellowing, and his graphite lines are smudging, but the general idea remains. No food, no weight gain. He pulls up his shirt and grabs at his stomach, feeling for elastic skin and ounces of fat. He feels up his ribs, his chest, grabs the skin beneath his chin, pulls it out, back and forth. Then, he reaches behind and onto his shoulder blades. The grasps and _cringes_. There is a full grip of flesh in his shaking fingers.

* * *

He ducks around his kitchen, opening pantry doors, removing all the contents onto the counter in messy piles that are half constructed, half thrown over. Containers of salt, bags of flour, cereals, a bag of broccoli, a head of cabbage, three apples, a small stack of canned tuna . . .

There is a four pack of what he thought was apple juice. It stands there with a corner missing, looking like the tall version of that juice little kids drink impulsively. Juicy something, right? It's behind a stack of Tupperware filled of leftovers Arthur forced upon him, coupled with a saran-wrapped stack of pancakes Matthew left him three or four days ago. He picks up the box and flips it about (almost dropping it once or twice) looking for the nutritional value box.

Instead he finds happy little quotes that he can't quite read (damn his glasses for walking off like that!) and a handy splurge on the front: _13% Alcohol._ Pinot Grigio in a box. Wine to go. A juice box for adults (Oh, Francis would _die_). Best save that for later, after all, who would throw something that cool out? Nevermind how he got it.

After most of the food in his house has been brought to stand at attention, he steps back into the threshold and simply stares at his handy work. He segregates each stretch of counter space into sides of 'emergencies' and 'refuse.' By the time he is done he has little more than peaches, saltines, fig jam, and protein bars left in his 'emergencies' store.

A note is uncovered as the waves of food are parted. Small, elegant cursive on a bright yellow post-it note: _Happy belated birthday. XOXO._ Arthur, oh god, _Arthur._ The note is stuck on top of one of his heavy-duty (or so Alfred calls it; it's really just sturdier than the off brand he buys) containers with the thick, black rubber lid. He opens it (Oh, Arthur why do you do this?) to find neat cubes of Turkish Delight, made with dates, figs, nuts and sugar. And are those rosewater ones as well? That _man._

They're probably the most beautiful thing he's set eyes on in a while but _damn._Ninety-five calories per cube (which, mind you is one serving), with twenty-seven calories of fat nestled inside. Alfred is shaking but no no no, he can't eat those. His cells scream out for some sort of nourishment (they need those fats to make cell walls, to send bio-chemical messages; you're killing us!) but he refuses. He closes the lid and all but throws the container into his fridge, underneath the stacks of low-calorie yogurt.

For a moment his head spins and he forgets where he is. White walls, piles of food . . . oh, right, kitchen. The cabinets are sorted, the pantry gutted, and soon enough everything will be back on track and he'll be _gorgeous_. He pats his stomach.

His entire body gurgles as he looks for old grocery bags and boxes (perhaps even the milk crate he has strapped to his bike) to pile the other food into. Each batch is labeled accordingly: _Seventh Street Church_, _Stone Soup Kitchen_, _The American Red Cross_, _Three Bridges Homeless Center_. Alfred isn't wasteful (far from it, really!) he just doesn't _want_ anymore. There are mounds of bags and containers being colour-coded and labeled and his heart just _aches _as he moves them into the back of his compact SUV. After the first three trips he has to take a break, catch his breath, check his pulse just to make sure he won't keel over from lifting so much foodstuffs.

The digital clock on his microwave beeps at him upon the fall of the noon hour. A bunch of radishes shift in the plastic dish they are soaking in, and they make the kitchen smell like dirt and old, crushed leaves. For the first time in nearly two months, Alfred eats something before his two-thirty mealtime, and it almost burns as it goes down.

* * *

"Matt, I just––oh_ god_, Matt, I don't know what to do."

"Hey, uhm, just calm down Alfred, you're okay, you're _okay_."

"No. I'm not okay. I've done everything _right_ and it just won't _go away._It's all still here and––" there is a choked back sob, a sort of warbling sound that sounds more like a deep, throaty bird call than a grown man crying. The cell phone reception (albeit nearly pristine) does not transfer the sheer weight of the emotion very well. Electro-magnetic waves are very poor conductors.

Alfred shudders a breath. "He still says it. Almost every time, and, and it just _kills _me," he sighs. "I don't . . ."

Matthew stays quite on his end, twisting in his chair all the way across the country, to try and gather his thoughts. "Al, you . . . you haven't even told me what's wrong, y'know?" A pall. "I, uhm, I don't know what to say."

Although Matthew's voice is quiet, it still has enough substance to make Alfred feel something. "I––I can't tell you. Sorry." Abrupt, but it needs to be said.

Matthew is equally as blunt: "Then I can't help you, Alfred."

"Don't say that, Mattie, don't you say that," he's desperate and breathless now. "We're brothers, right? I mean, you gotta at least _talk _to me, right?"

"Yes, of course, of course we're brothers, Alfred," his voice is a bit louder now. "I'll talk to you all you want, whenever you want, I'll––" He cuts himself off. "Do you need me to come down there?"

A few heartbeats pass over Alfred's mind. And then: "No. You don't need to. In fact, I'm fine. Really, I'm okay. Everything is fine now, I figured it out." Alfred's voice is still weak, but he's figured out what he's done. He almost spilled everything. Two and a half months of work and he almost dumped it down the drain. "Haha! Ha, ah, yeah. I'm fine, just, yeah. Don't worry." A half-hearted laugh and the most translucent excuse he's ever come up with.

"Uhm, o-okay. Are you sure?" Matthew, he can tell, doesn't believe a word of the shit he's saying. "Because I can––"

"No worries, little bro. Everything is so good down here, I just, I just-it was a horror movie, y'know? Got me spooked and actin' all funny." On his side, Alfred forces himself to smile at the full-body mirror he stands before.

"If you say so, I guess. . ." He's wary (but who can blame him? That one-eighty was the most obvious cover up in the history of––) but Alfred doesn't say anything to challenge it.

"Whew, yeah. Just a little shaken up." But Alfred is more than just shaken up, he's sin warmed over. Gritty, ugly skin, huge circles on his eyes, his fingernails are absolute shit. (Oh, how right you are Arthur. Absolute _shite._) He lifts his left arm over his head and watches his skin slide over his abdominal muscles and ribs.

He cradles the phone between a bony jaw and a tense shoulder. "Sorry to bother you, Mattie." The twins simultaneously push their glasses up their noses, unbeknownst to the other.

"Oh, no, it's all right Alfred . . ." Alfred hears him clear his throat. "I just wish you'd actually talk to me for once." Before Alfred can voice his guilt, Matthew hangs up.

"Yeah, me too." He drops the phone onto the bed and stares holes into his own forehead via the mirror before him.

The protrusions of his ribs and breastbone are almost inhumane. They pierce outward like jetting off cliffs, casting small shadows over the rest of his once-tan skin. The figure Alfred has accomplished now is nothing short of that of a small woman's. Sure, the purple veins on his wrist are popping out, but that's nothing a watch or long-sleeved shirt can't handle. This is about beauty and love and everything else Alfred has wanted.

Seventy days of starvation, and he's never felt better.

* * *

But back to Ivan now. He's still that tall, (ivory) muscular, foreign man with hair so blond it almost looks white. And then it _curls_ ever-so-slightly around his ears and down his neck and––(he really shouldn't be staring that much, but _damn_, he he's just drawn to him) well, Arthur knows and he doesn't actually mind. Yes yes _yes_, oh Arthur.

And he knows that Ivan watches him too, out of the corner of _those_ eyes. During those foreign relations meetings and when they trade notes and papers and essays and _what the hell do they really do?_But, job title aside, Ivan seems to be picking up on Alfred as well, and, well, that could be good or bad. . .

"Alfred, you are . . . smaller, yes?" Hmm, words like _that. _There are little snippets of Russian accents floating around on Ivan's tongue. The two of them are standing in the park just outside the office building, overlooking small dogs on leashes get into petty fights with Dalmatians, Dobermans, a Finnish Spitz. . .

Ivan is drinking something out of a thermos now that the October autumn weather is catching up to the eastern seaboard. It smells so unbearably good (beets and cabbage, right?) and Alfred listens as it sloshes around that russet thermos. Ivan shuffles from foot to foot, cinching his trench coat about himself. Alfred buries his light-headed teetering inside his leather flight jacket (that he stole from Matthew after their father passed away).

"Oh, uhm, yeah? You think so?" There is no hiding the joy in Alfred's voice. "I didn't really notice myself."

"Ah, yes. I do believe you have gotten less fat." He makes eye contact and nods his head in the affirmative.

"Oh. Uhm, yeah, I guess you could say that." He repeats what he said before, too caught up with the rush in his organs. Dejection comes fast and hard, knocking down Alfred's sense of pride and accomplishment. There is no loss in translation here.

Ivan seems to catch this. "Yes. But . . . you are being more . . . attractive?" Ivan's smile is somewhat crooked and brutally honest. "I'm afraid my English is still not very good."

Upon hearing praise of his (secretive) hard work, Alfred brightens and flashes a chemically whitened smile. "You're not so bad yourself." There, the playing field is now _even_.

The beets and cabbage floating in the mug ripple with the hum from Ivan's lips. Alfred can feel his knees starting to give way as he watches Ivan drink down his (what _is_ that, exactly?) meal. Through his jacket he grabs at his waist, feeling for the skin and rolls of fat he just _knows _is there (it has to be, right?). His face shifts into a discouraged frown.

"You are hungry?" Ivan notices the look on his face and the slouch in his posture.

Alfred doesn't make eye contact. "No, I'm fine. I'm just cold is all."

"I think you're lying to me," Ivan smiles again, eyes closed and crows feet wrinkling out of his skin.

Instead of his stomach feeling that numbing hurt (it's not that bad once he gets used to it) it's a sinking feeling directly beneath his solar plexus; the definition of the bone seems to add to the intensity of the reaction.

Before he knows it, the graham cracker he ate at eleven that morning comes riding up on a wave of bile. Alfred doubles over and empties his (rapidly shrinking) stomach onto the half-frozen and leaf-covered ground. Yellow, brown, and little chunks splatter around his dress shoes.

Temporarily he loses his sight and equilibrium (and there it is, the falling falling falling) and lurches forward onto his knees. Alfred hears Ivan's jacket rustle and then hands are on his spine and the nape of his neck. He coughs more, flecking out phlegm and bile, and then his stomach is empty.

"Oh––" a cough, "––oh _god_, I'm sorry," he clears his throat and spits, "I'm so sorry about this." Alfred's glasses are carefully removed as a cool hand wipes along his face.

"You are alright?" Ivan's accent his kind and quiet, and (oh jeez, Alfred would jump him right _now _if he wasn't so dizzy and disgusting) he's rubbing little circles on his back. He pockets Alfred's glasses in the long drapes of his coat.

"I––I'm fine. Just hotter than hell and my mouth tastes like the inside of a skunk."

There is a cold mouth on his grimy forehead and Alfred instantly stills. The lips pull away. "You are quite funny; much more entertaining than I anticipated." A fine Russian simper graces Ivan's face and, although somewhat out of place, Alfred finds it so goddamn _amazing._

* * *

Two weeks later (and seven more food items added to the falling-apart yellow list) Alfred finds himself in Ivan's D.C. apartment, leaning across the breakfast bar (how much money does this man make, anyway?), intimately engaged in a full lip-lock. The nutritional information for a medium sized beet was on the screen of the iPhone between them (affectionately named Kennedy), but forgotten almost immediately.

Alfred shivers as Ivan holds onto his neck. He had missed his two-thirty meal (half of a breakfast bar these days; only seventy-five calories as opposed to the full one-hundred and fifty) and the cramps wracking his body feel completely internal and grasping at every single inch of his intestine. They share an Eskimo kiss (oh _god _they're even better with Ivan) before said intestine garbles in anger and protest, Ivan breaks away.

"I will make you something," and there, right there, is another Russian smile.

Alfred excuses himself into the living area and sinks into the black leather couch. He grabs at the back of his knees and pinches the skin compulsively. Still, he feels the fat (skin, just loose skin, in reality) and how it sticks to his skin and muscles, and _everything_.

He looks over his shoulder and watches Ivan cut something (red? something purple?) and tastes the guilt wash back up his throat. He can't eat anything, no no no, not anything, because then everything would be moot and _fuck._He grasps under his jaw and tugs.

For twenty minutes he twists at his chin and neck and arms and––and––and just _ugh_. (This would end him, he was so sure.) His legs twitch and his feet shuffle about in their socks on the hard wood floors (Are those black walnut? With madrone accents? _Damn._)

Maybe he should slip out his sixty-calorie yogurt and take a hit to steady himself out. Besides, it's just yogurt. And it isn't even that old rainbow shit any more; this is Greek yogurt (the stuff that actually tastes like pure protein) and so perhaps, on the off-chance, it would hold his stomach for later . . .

Ivan seems to phase out of the blurs of Alfred's peripheral vision, holding two soup mugs (one white with black hand-painted vegetables, the other painted with the inverse) and his scarf tossed over his shoulders. "This is borscht. Slightly different, ah, Americanized, I guess you could say. But still, this is what we eat back home."

Ah, so this is what was in that thermos those weeks ago. Alfred almost can't resist the smell of the soup as Ivan begins to modestly eat his own serving, nibbling on a piece of quartered beet. It's so tempting but, shit, sour cream. And sour cream has all those calories (at fat, mind you, lipids lipids lipids.) and lord, that would end him. No. No more fat.

Politely, he takes the mug between his hands and skewers a piece of cabbage. He eats half of the minuscule leaf that sticks to his fork and sets the rest back into the mug. Ivan's watching him again and he feels hotter than usual (maybe it's because he's eating something, oh jesus this cabbage is delicious). He pushes the food about his mug, sipping the broth every few minutes (fluids run through him like _greased lightening_, and if need be, he'll just throw it up later.) and after a while, he sets the mug down completely.

"Do you . . . ah, not like it?" Ivan puts on hurt eyes (those must be a ruse) as he hears the mug hit the end table.

"Oh, no, I love it actually. I'm just not hungry right now. I ate before I came." Alfred smiles again, but more faked than before.

"Hmm, I see." Ivan sets down his own mug of almost-gone borscht, and leans over towards Alfred's side of the loveseat. No more words are exchanged as Ivan grasps Alfred's waist (so small, so . . . empty) and twists and lifts and sits Alfred upon his own lap.

"You are––lighter than I expected," Ivan's voice is amused and light, close to Alfred's ear. He kisses him again, along his jaw and finally on his mouth. "And you taste like cabbage." He hides a laugh under his breath and then against Alfred's neck. His hands are traveling down down down until they come to rest: one on the curve of his ass, the other on his inner thigh and they both _squeeze––_

"But at least you are not all skin and bones." And right there the moment dies for Alfred. He shies away and scoots down the length of the loveseat, trying to make the meager two feet seem like more of a distance. Ivan catches himself. "I apologize; did I say something . . . incorrect?"

"You think I'm fat, don't you." The tone of voice Alfred uses is so soft and fragile that Ivan almost can't hear him. He is still holding his thigh in one hand and his face in the other. "Oh god, you do. You do." Almost accusatory.

"Pardon?"

"Gimmie a few days, I'll lose a few pounds and––" Alfred stands up and gathers his coat. "_God damn it_. I'll be thinner." The world around him goes burgundy and brown, murky and grainy around the edges; damn it all, he stood up too fast. He covers the loss of balance (for that one millisecond) with an attempt to move his slip-on shoes with his heel.

Now Ivan's understanding is completely misplaced. "Thank you for the food, and the, the, everything else. That part was . . ." _amazing, like always._Alfred looks at him with wet and gummy eyes, trying to hide the bags on his face with the wire frames of his glasses. He combs his hair with his fingers.

"I'll see you next week." He tosses on his jacket, toes on his shoes, and doesn't look back as he walks out of the apartment.

Five minutes after Alfred gets back to his own abode he marches to the bathroom, jams a finger down his throat, and forces himself to vomit every last ounce of the nothing he ate that day.

* * *

Even though it's a syrup (of one-fourteenth of the actual root, and then almost entirely sugar syrup, but that's neither here nor there), there are no calories in ipecac. At least, none that will stay in his gut. It was difficult to get the prescription, but Alfred managed to quasi-cough up a lung frequently enough to gain pity from his doctor.

Now, sitting in his bathroom (two days after the horrible comments in Ivan's apartment) he reads the label and takes into consideration the heart damage he could be getting. But, that's if you _abuse_ ipecac, and Alfred F. Jones does not _abuse _prescription medication. No, this is a one-time thing. Of course, of course.

The chains of alkaloids do their job as Alfred's gag reflex spasms and he doubles over from the taste, the smell, the chemical reactions in his trigger zone. He empties his stomach (mainly water, phlegm, and gross yellow bile) over and over into the toilet. His legs hurt from being ground into the tiled floor, grout lines impressing into the thin skin of his knees. His hands are cramping from grasping onto the toilet lid.

Good _lord _does he reek. The induced vomiting smells worse then when Arthur's hung over from too much dry gin. The smell makes him gag again, and he dry-heaves. Alfred's body is screaming at him; lungs constricting, throat burning, eyes watering and blinking all too fast.

The third round brings more water and bile up from the depths of his bowel. He misses the toilet and hits half of his bathtub and most of his floor. The smell is enough to make him nearly black out. Alfred falls forward, grip slipping off the toilet and into his own sick. Vomit meets his elbows.

But, this is what he wants, he thinks. Get thin fast, right? Right. And then Arthur and Ivan will love him regardless, and he'll be _beautiful _and flat and everything will be so _good_.

* * *

This time instead of some over-priced restaurant, they all meet in some high-class bar, low lights making Alfred's already shaky and completely shot vision even worse. He hopes he hasn't given himself night-blindness.

Arthur sees him tottering and takes his arm (discreetly, of course. Strictly business here) and leads him to a booth adjacent to the bar. The thick and polished wood of the table has phallic imagery like no other carved into it (Or Sapphic, depending on how you turn your head), and Alfred finds himself running his fingers over the etched lines and initials.

"I want you to stop being an oik and talk to me," Arthur says. His hands find Alfred's. Alfred's large, calloused fingers feel dry and . . . and _used_. "And don't try to bullshit me, Alfred Jones, or so help me I––"

"Arthur," he stops him. He tries to squeeze Arthur's small, dainty, _lovely, _little fingers, but can't seem to manage. "I'm okay. Really." He leans forward and presses a (dry, weak) kiss to Arthur's forehead, and slinks back into the leather booth seat.

The smaller gives a disbelieving stare, cocking his head to the right in a gesture of thought. Arthur chews his bottom lip and leans back in his seat. "If you say so."

Over at the bar Ivan sits with a short glass and an unlabeled bottle of (assumed) vodka. He's sipping and staring at Alfred and Arthur in their booth without any inhibition or shame. Every movement and kiss and brief touch he sees, and takes it into memory.

Alfred catches his eye and keeps it there. He leans forward once more and kisses the edge of Arthur's mouth, all while staring at Ivan's indigo eyes. If Arthur notices then he doesn't care. Hmm, people like _this_.

Before Arthur or Ivan can act on Alfred's whimsy, Alfred shifts back. One of his bouts of vertigo come back and he's temporarily off-kilter. Blinking a few times, and steadies his head with his hands. Frankly, Alfred is somewhat tired of not seeing things without their full luster, and he grinds his teeth in irritation. He feels like he's vibrating with all the shallow spasms his body is producing (cell walls breaking down, muscles clenching, pupils dilating) and oh _god he can't see anything and––_

A hand lands on his shoulder. There are two on his face, cupping his cheeks, and a third and fourth on his neck and shoulder. He's cold and his mouth tastes like bile and sandpaper and his skin (at least between his palms, where he can feel it) is like gravel and ice and old dead chickens. But his fingers are thinner, and that's what really matters.

The hands on his cheeks move, rubbing small circles with fingertips behind his ears. Little thumbs (small, cute, nimble thumbs) rub under his eyes (there are huge, deep, inky bags there; don't _touch_ those . . .) and brush away the sleeping dust from his eyelashes. Slowly his vision comes back but even after a few minutes remains blurry. Glasses. Those. He needs them.

He tries to grab around for them on the floor (linoleum?) but only encounters loose hairs and a pant leg that's home to a very muscular limb. Hmm. The leg shifts closer towards him, pushing into his palm.

"Alfred," comes the call. He looks up, shapes still blurry, and sees the distinct eye brows of one Arthur Kirkland and the almost overbearing profile of one Ivan Braginsky. "Alfred, come on now lad."

His glasses are placed into his shaking hands but then removed again as Alfred's coordination is still lacking. He blinks a few times, and looks around at Arthur's worried face and Ivan's slight frown. Arthur's hands leave his face and grasp around his wrist.

"Alfred." Arthur's voice is stern. "What are you doing to yourself?" His fingers are around Alfred's wrist, thumb connecting with pinky. Alfred tries to squirm away, but Ivan, watching silently, holds him about the waist pins him against his chest.

"Hey––hey now, lemme go. I haven't done anything!" His mind is still foggy and he can't quite––

"Alfred, listen to me," Arthur has taken on his mother hen tone, and is tutting down at him. "You aren't in any trouble . . .oh you poor sod." They bus foreheads and Arthur cradles Alfred's head once again. He presses kisses to his face, corners of his mouth, his eyelids, holding the thin and pale neck in his delicate hands.

A wave of tranquility and relaxation washes over Alfred's taxed body. He leans back into Ivan's chest as Arthur follows, peppering kisses and endearments and apologies. When Arthur's mouth finally meets Alfred's (pity, passion? What sort of emotion is he tasting?) he sighs through his nose and lets his trembling take over.

Ivan takes the weight of the two other men with ease, leaning back only to accommodate Arthur's (untimely, goodness me) advances. "Arthur, Artie, c'mon, lay off for a sec––" and Alfred begins to push him away. "I'm okay, there's nothing _wrong." _He's nestled himself quite nicely in Ivan's lap (despite the twitching and shifting) and seems to be making no plans on moving. Ivan (whom is sporting a lovely hum of vodka and an attractive man pressing against him) tightens his grip and spreads his legs ever-so-slightly.

"I'm fine, I'm fine . . . oh _shit_," Alfred breaks the reverie and lurches forward, crawling over to a toilet (oh thank god above a bathroom, they're in a bathroom!) and vomits up the sips of alcohol he stole from Arthur's gin and tonic. Then, in a second bout, the remnants of a miniature sweet pepper stuffed with guacamole. He leans against the toilet and pinches the skin on his upper arm.

The row of knuckles that face Arthur and Ivan are gruesome and distracting. They look chopped, mangled, shredded and burned down. Skin is peeling and red with irritation. Lines of what could be scrapes flow down the digits, square and flat, but it's hard to tell at this angle and this distance . . .

After a few moments of awkward silence and Alfred's heaving, they speak. "Hey, Ivan," Alfred looks up from the porcelain bowl (eyes bloodshot and skin breaking). "D'you . . . d'you think I look better now?" He's breathless and searching and compulsively wiping his dry nose.

Arthur sends a look at Ivan, whom replies with a weak: "Ah, yes? I do not believe I ever said you looked, uhm, undesirable." He pauses for a moment. "Is that the correct word, undesirable?"

"Yes." Arthur, terse.

"But, you said I wasn't––and, and, you squeezed my _ass_, and I worked so hard to get rid of it and-and I still like that? Was it not enough?" Alfred, defending himself like a hormonal teenager.

"I believe there was a misgiving; I meant no such thing . . ." Ivan, confused and guilty and ultimately trying to understand what's going on with a vodka and arousal-ridden brain.

"Alfred, are you sick?" Arthur stands up now. He's brushing the dirt and pubic hairs off of his slacks and checking his shoes for a blemish in the polish. (Based on that look he's wearing he's losing interest or something of the sort.)

Alfred looks up from the toilet once more, slightly taken aback. "Who, me? Sick? Well, no––er, yeah?" He pauses. "Yeah, I think I caught some stomach bug. That shit's been working around––" here he must break to even his breathing "––ah, the office lately." As soon as he's finished he leans forward and chucks a small amount of god knows what into the toilet and hacks.

The two on the far end of the lavatory share uncertain looks. Ivan stays silent. "Well then, I suppose we best get you home." Arthur takes the reins, but still suspicious as ever. Ivan nods in agreement and gets to his feet.

Now, Alfred's wrist, although small for a man of five feet and nine inches, is easily dwarfed by the monstrous hands of Ivan, whom stands at five feet eleven inches. The balance is thrown when Arthur (the same height as Alfred even though he's often mistaken for smaller; the reason is unknown the world) can easily wrap his entire hand about the protruding wrist bone. A human holding onto a skeleton.

And when Arthur encounters little challenge pulling Alfred to his feet, little red flags spring up everywhere. Alfred receives a whispered ultimatum: "We _will _talk later." And that's the end of that exchange.

The trio walk (or stumble, if you're as weak as Alfred or as easily swayed after a single gin and tonic as Arthur) out into the parking lot. Alfred suggests they take Ivan's car (a monster of a thing, really. Thank god above it runs on biodiesel) in as calm a tone he can muster.

"Because mine's too small for Bigfoot here," he gestures towards Ivan, "and yeah. Yours is just backwards." This time a gesture to Arthur.

"It's European, you dolt."

"And you're _drunk." _Ah, touché, even if it is a lie.

The ride back to Alfred's dwelling is a quiet one: Ivan completely attentive to the road; Arthur muttering under his breath (probably about Alfred, but more likely about fairies; that man is so _gay_); and Alfred trying to contain a small anxious seizure, a condensed panic attack about the state of his house and if the food he has yet to deliver will keep overnight. Oh _god_ they're going to see everything, or the lack of everything. They're going to find out and then no one will love him and he should just _die_, shouldn't he?

He thinks he blacked out for a minute (or ten, who knows) because he comes to in the den of his own house. It's a little ranch-style with two bedrooms, one-and-a-half bath, and an over-sized kitchen that is wasting away. Arthur looks around, Ivan looks off into the distance (or his bookshelf, Alfred can't quite discern it) and Alfred takes note of how uncomfortable this damn davenport is.

"There's nothing here, Alfred." Oh no, it seems Arthur's stumbled upon his hollowed pantry. "Do you need a personal shopper or something? This is . . .it's tragic."

He comes waltzing out of the kitchen with a bag of grapes and a half-full pot of coffee. (He did decide that coffee was a no, but then he realized that black coffee had zero calories and well, push comes to shove and look! His very own Home Barista!) "You don't even have those crisps you eat all the damn time." Arthur is either angry or tired, and Alfred can't quite tell.

"I'll check for some Tums or something for your stomach." And Arthur beelines for the bathroom.

Wait wait wait! "Hey, you know what? I feel better! Haha, guess it was a one time thing, huh?" Alfred's throwing his voice at Arthur, trying to reel him back into the living room and away from that den of ipecac and pseudoephedrine. "No need to worry––hey, Arthur? Arthur!" Alfred hits his fever pitch and tries to stand up, chase after Arthur, _get him away from there_, but another load of blood rushes to his head and knocks him back.

Ivan takes two long strides and captures Alfred, tugging him down onto himself and pinning his arms to his sides. "Nyet. Stay here." His voice drops an octave (two, three? What's that music scale . . .) and sounds quite threatening. Perhaps Alfred should release his bladder to get away; fake incontinence and avoid confrontation altogether.

He wriggles and swears under his breath, feels his phone dig into his bony back, tries to claw Ivan's fingers away (oh god any minute now and Arthur will find everything. Is time slowing down?) but there's no strength in him anymore. He's dead now. Dead and weak but oh so lovely and flat.

He blinks at the near-empty bottle of ipecac that is shoved before his nose. Briefly his myopic gets the best of him (even with his new glasses, damnation!) and it's just a brownish blur. "Oh, _shit."_

"Sick? Ha! Bollocks!" Arthur's green eyes are red from _something_. "Trying to kill yourself?" Arthur sets the bottle down against the counter with a bit too much gusto. The cracking boom that comes from the glass against the wood makes Alfred jump and Ivan's arms constrict more. This man has become a giant, strangling snake, ready to devour Alfred's dignity at a moment's notice.

Everything falls on Arthur's head and shoulders and it makes him crack, bend under the weight. He slowly sits down beside Ivan and Alfred, holding his head in his hands and rocking on the balls of his feet. "What are you _doing?"_

Before Alfred can analyze what he's saying it comes up and out like bile: "I'm not fat anymore, am I?"

Alfred feels Ivan's iron grip shift and clutch around him more. Possession. (Oh no, Ivan, oh god, don't think like that; that's not what was meant! Please pretend to not understand.) He feels his trapper duck down and press the bridge of his nose to the top of Alfred's trapezius.

This is where Alfred expects the insults. The brash verbiage and short temper that is all too familiar with the Englishman, one Arthur Kirkland. He readies himself for the verbal abuse and the mockery, the fat jokes and examples of his stupidity.

They do not come.

There is quiet. Quiet so calming and alarming (and altogether unaccounted for) that Alfred flinches from the sudden onset. Arthur is sitting stock-still and looking at his own hands. He does not blink, he does not seem to even breathe. He just sits and waits.

Alfred's throat burns from expelling so much bile, and his teeth feel fuzzy and rigid. He needs a glass of water. He needs his tooth brush and bulk-sized tube of toothpaste. He runs his tongue along his teeth and stops fighting Ivan's caging embrace. He leans back, sighs, and stares at the ceiling.

Even Ivan (whose nose is being painfully bent up at the end from all of Alfred's feeble shifting) remains still, his breathing somewhat pronounced as the airway is somewhat complicated by Alfred's shoulder. He drums his fingers on Alfred's painfully tight stomach and closes his eyes.

* * *

Collectively, there is little memory or reference to that night six days ago. Alfred does not remember much (he was so _tired_), Arthur has played his stubbornness card, and Ivan has gone taciturn in all aspects of his life.

Forcefully, Arthur and Ivan (now on excellent terms it seems; Alfred swears he's seen them kiss on the cheek at _least_) have moved in with Alfred, and keep a constant watch and record of his eating and drinking habits. It's comfortable to have them so near and so caring that at times Alfred eats an entire peach instead of just a half or a third.

He's suspended from work (twenty dollars on Ivan somehow intimidating their head of staff into some outrageous agreement) and does nothing other than sit in his living room watching work out videos or his collection of Disney videos on his religiously maintained VCR.

Today, Ivan sits with him and tries to get him to eat a slice of Russian black bread. "Come now, _dorogoĭ_, only a bite. Then I will stop insisting upon you." Hah, the broken English really gets down deep into Alfred's heart.

"Shh, Esmerelda is escaping from the cathedral." Alfred is attentively watching _The Hunchback of Notre Dame _and wringing his hands. Attempt one: avoided.

So Ivan changes his approach. "Hmm, if you say so," and he takes a hearty bite of the bread and licks his lips. A flock of crumbs falls down his scarf and onto his lap, and come to rest just hairs from the crack of the cushions. He leans towards Alfred's shoulder, and brings one bear-sized hand to the meet of their knees.

Alfred shifts his gaze from the wall-mounted flat screen television and lazily watches Ivan's advance. "I'm not eating it," he says.

"Hmm, oh, what? Ah, of course not. I do not expect you to."

"Sure, sure," is half-hearted and slow.

As soon as his companion's attention is back on the movie, Ivan makes his next migration. A hand on the waist, then . . . ah, there's the other (not very original and so Alfred doesn't pay much mind). Then he securely clamps down on the taught waist (it really shouldn't be that small, tsk tsk) and three, two, one, tugs and pins Alfred to Ivan's side of the davenport. Attempt two: ensnared completely.

The black bread is back in Ivan's right hand, taken up from the side table where it was posted on stand-by. Ivan smirks down at him, indigo eyes flashing as they crinkle and bring his full eyebrows together. He takes a bite of the slice (rather large, breaking if off so that a notable edge hangs out over his lips) and brings it forward to Alfred's mouth.

Well, shit. Attempt three: oh damn you Ivan . . . caught red handed.

Alfred's stomach betrays his three months of fasting and cramps and _screams _at him. (He swears he can smell the cocoa and the coffee in the dough.) There are three hundred and twenty calories in one serving! Even though only nine of them are fat but _still_. Carbs are carbs are carbs are fat. Or rather, sixty-seven grams of carbohydrates are fat. This is much too risky. His face is reluctant, and he looks away to Phoebus being struck by Frollo's men. (And there it is, the betrayal!) He leans forward and-

"The next time that disgusting Bonnefoy makes _any_ sort of comment about the pages in our building I swear to god that I'll personally remove his scrotum with his letter opener!" Ah ha! The great entrance by Arthur; that man never fails to be a cockblock.

But this doesn't faze Ivan whom leans forward and parts Alfred's lips with the rough and crumbling edge of the bread. Crumbs fall down onto Alfred's hooded sweatshirt.

Upon the invasion of the bread Alfred opens his mouth and lets it in, tasting the strong flavor and the hidden vinegar taste. He tastes it and cheeks it. (Oh, nice try mister Braginsky.)

And upon the falling of the _crumbs_, on the other hand, Arthur's cleanliness senses seem to ignite his very blood and the man speedwalks (never runs nor rushes, which doesn't particularly make sense) into the sitting room. He spies the back of Alfred's head (the one hair still won't go down, god damn it) and Ivan's snow-white hands grabbing his neck. Then he spots the bread in between them, and well . . .

. . .he stands and watches, making no noise. (Alfred would call him perverted, Francis would call him a hero of _l'amour_, and Ivan would call him a distraction.) If Alfred notices him (Ivan surely does) he doesn't rightly care and _oh, they're eating bread!_ Tricky bastard that Braginsky. Just _look _at that stratagem.

There is only so much bread Alfred can cheek, and eventually he swallows what's in his mouth. He feels horrible thinking off all those calories of sugar and starch and _god what is he doing?_He swallows it all down and looks Ivan in the eye. He gives him a kicked puppy look and feels like crying (Ivan tricked him! How could he? He thought . . .) but blinks it away.

More crumbs fall and he pushes Ivan away. Alfred turns and catches Arthur standing there in the doorway, doing nothing about what just happened (this breach of trust!). And so, Alfred transfers his puppy eyes onto Arthur at full force.

The effect is immediate. Arthur takes small (proper) steps and comes to rest at Alfred's other side. Arthur's formidable eyebrows tilt upwards as he appraises Alfred's angular face. He takes it into his hands (like he always does and, oh, does Alfred love that) and makes complete eye contact.

"You're okay," he says. Arthur looks over Alfred's shoulder at Ivan, whose own visage has fallen into guilt. Oh, this poor man. Reduced to a skeleton with the mind of a child; what went _wrong?_ "You're okay." The statement goes for Alfred _and _Ivan, he supposes.

"Yeah?" Alfred sounds hopeful. He perks up into Arthur's palms and cracks a small, chapped smile.

"Of course, of course," he continues. "You ate something. That's a _good_ thing, a _wonderful_ thing, love." His own smile is full of slightly crowded teeth (ah, such a stereotype, it's sort of endearing) but completely honest. "And don't even argue with me." He adds.

More than likely it's the British accent that gets Alfred to calm down almost immediately. In fact, that was the only way Alfred would let Ivan dump the ipecac down the drain and buy groceries: Arthur's buoyant speech.

Alfred's distemper is calmed and he lets his afflicted muscles spasm and then release. Hmm, days like _this_. Ivan (hope renewed) gathers Alfred up once more, albeit more friendly (and with no ulterior motives) and snuggles him. Snuggles! Oh, has Alfred been reduced to a horribly skinny body pillow?

But, the movie is over now (the gargoyle gay for Jolly the goat is the best, really) and Ivan, being the strong and silent type, is quietly inviting him into his chest, and Arthur, _well_, Arthur has that look again . . .

His stomach pains go forgotten.

Arthur's in one of those moods again (his libido is almost as active as Francis', even though he'd be caught dead before admitting it) and makes up his mind to climb atop Alfred _and _Ivan. The material of his slacks and suit jacket chafe awkwardly against Alfred's jeans and skin. But, who really cares right now? No one does. He kisses Alfred sweetly on the mouth and clutches the fleece of the sweatshirt (poor chap, he only wears them to hide his body).

The two smaller men engage with no hesitation essentially directly on top of Ivan's lap, slowly pushing him to lean back into the davenport to make way for Arthur's lithe legs. Well now, this is familiar. Arthur on top, Alfred in the middle, and Ivan acting as the backrest. But, not this day! Ivan will be more than a soft landing for Arthur to abuse.

After all, he is the caring one, the cradling one, the one that coddles Alfred and comforts him, and and and (oh, would you look at that alliteration? Communist goes right along with it, but that was a different place, different time . . .) he's the one that deserves to be kissed. _Ivan_ was the one to pour away the ipecac; _Ivan_ was the one to buy the food and make the bread and the borscht and the juice; _Ivan _was the one to rub his spine as Alfred emptied his stomach or refused to eat. _Ivan _was the one to get Alfred's leave and feed Alfred bread, and now he wants his reward.

For once his extremely Russian facial features prove an advantage in social and intimate situations. He nuzzles his face along Alfred's jaw and lifts up to breathe into his ear. The shiver he gets makes his eyes light up as even Arthur makes notice of the movement. Once, twice over he exhales long and soft into the canals of Alfred's ear and feels him squirm. (How nice! But if only he wasn't so . . . sharp. This ass is rather uncomfortable.) Ivan lifts his mouth and kisses the jaw line underneath Alfred's ear as Arthur heads that way as well. Well this was something he could work with, perhaps.

Arthur and Ivan meet almost in secret on Alfred's jaw line, touching tongues for half a second. The two of them feel a shock and pull away. Alfred (feeling neglected and unattractive once again) tilts his head towards the two (the proximity makes it somewhat difficult) and observes the new development. He clears his throat and, whoops! Arthur flushes and Ivan rolls his eyes. It's a sort of half-assed apology (don't be so selfish, please.) before Ivan takes his mouth and Arthur kneads his stomach.

"You look much better," Arthur whispers. He shucks off his jacket and pulls of his tie before reattaching to Alfred's (not as starved) stomach.

"Hmm . . ." is all Alfred can manage from his occupation with Ivan's lips tilting his head away.

Well, look at that! A nice long neck just waiting for Arthur. Initiative! He'll take it. He leans forward, hands still on those stomach muscles, and puts open-mouth kisses all along the carotid.

Ivan's hands move away from Alfred's waist and _crawl _down to Alfred's inner-thighs. Alfred lets out a sound (a low pitched squeak if anything) that edges him on, and so he squeezes––


	2. Enabler

**Author's Note: And here's part two. Hmm, this could be bad. Not sure. . . let's just say that it gets a bit more intense this time around.**

**I'm also a junkie of parallel structure, if you haven't noticed. Here, have some more.**

**A special thank you to **_**x-cheshire-puss-x**_ **for your kind words and enthusiasm. A happy belated birthday to you.**

**NOTE: 11 April, 2011, re-uploaded to fix horrible grammar errors. No new content, just reads better.**

* * *

Binding is not a new concept to Alfred. He has been predisposed to it once or twice (complaining girls and soap operas––the ones that Arthur denies watching) but time after time it was just . . . overly _feminine._

But this day Alfred stands before that full body mirror in his bedroom with a sanitized and unwanted elastic bandage in his hand. It's one of those brought out into the Operating Room, or the Clinic, but then decided against and, well, in the medical profession that bandage is as good as leprosy: unusable. Rubbish. And therefore not missed when taken. (Please and thank you darling miss Magdalena. You are in fact the favourite Puerto Rican nurse in this city.)

In some sort of miracle both the (overbearing) roommates (imposed housemates, rather) are gone on at a down state mini-convention (read: paper extravaganza and reckless abandonment for scheduling and digestion. Those poor hosers). Riddance to them! Oh thank _god_, if those two find out . . . well, now, that's actually not much of a threat.

The spectre of his reflection stands creaking and wary in the tall looking-glass. Ashen. Pallor pulsing with his capillaries (yet another charming alliteration). Clawed hands grip the roll of the wrap, the cloth layering thinker than a three-inch coffee mug. The width of those damn soup mugs painted black and white and white and black . . .

Velcro cracks like bursas sliding in joints. Alfred peels back the first layer of the bandage and places the end over his left pectoral. His is tempted to wrap over his kidneys and navel but no, he places it over his heart (thanking Magdalena once more) and rolls it across his skin. The elastic fabric is soothing to the touch.

His chest, though broad, takes the wrapping four times around. (He can manage five or six bouts if he really takes advantages of the _spring_ of the thing.) When he can't bring it farther about himself, Alfred lets out a frustrated grunt. He turns first so his serrated rib muscles are centered in the mirror. They mostly covered by the light suntan bandage but still very much there and announced near their end at his waist. Then, another quarter turn (he takes up a hand mirror to analyze his spine) and all hell is let loose.

Such a sound has never escaped the confines of the (starving) chemical envelope that is Alfred Jones' body until now. Frenetic and––and (this is ludicrous, oh _god_) he squeezes the mirror too tightly. This is a scream, this is a wail, no! This is a death rattle four thousand times louder. A single deranged gargle made of chopped words and a broken mind. Alfred shouts, he grabs his hair (and pulls pulls _yanks_); he swings around to face himself and crunches over. He is sobbing now, his nose running and eyes watering. The banshee wail is teetering off to a collection of stringy shrieks and whimpers. It is a fit like no other, a tantrum of adult proportions.

The inciter is a small bulge of skin poking out from the edge of the bandage. A little bump––a healthy bump––but a bump nonetheless. (Little does Alfred know this is a remnant of skin and flesh, a last barrier for his poor blood vessels.) For some reason there is still fat on his back. But . . . but why? He's trying so hard! He paces around the shuttered room face peachy and glasses tossed aside. There is _something_ there, and it's all _their _fault. Oh Arthur. Oh Ivan. You tricky little bastards; you doxies! How can you do this to him? Never again will he take food from them.

Alfred's socks on his carpet dull the angry marching much to his dismay. He wants the sound, the feeling of pure rage. He wants to be so loud his neighbors will phone in a noise complaint. This room is too small, his skin is too tight, stomach too _full_ with that half scone and skimmed milk. God damn you to hell, Arthur Kirkland, and your shoddy cooking skills.

He peels the binding off, nearly stretching the adhesive from the fabric with rabid strikes to his own chest. A few times he misses and his fingernails (chipped and jagged from incessant biting) catch skin. Oops, a little deep there. Red lines mar the surface of his pectoralis major. They stream across like rivers of strawberries or pomegranates or caustic red ants. The same stinging feeling encases each line. He looks down upon his hands and chest and _growls._

This is outrageous. He stomps (muffled sulking is what it sounds like, but oh no no) to his adjoined lavatory and rustles through Arthur's usually well-kept toiletries. Green items suddenly seem to be everywhere and so ah! He sweeps across with his arms and strikes down the comb and the deodorant and the toothpaste and the retainer all into the refuse bin, the floor, and the bathtub. He needs more _room_ or how can he possibly find what he _needs_?

Alfred flips the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet with more strength than he requires and shuffles through the boxes. Pain relievers, sedatives, melatonin, nasal spray . . . the orange box! There it is, behind the containers of chewable adult vitamins and the dissolvable vitamin C. Prescription pseudoephedrine. Glory unto this medication, this drug!

He tells himself he needs the pills to clear his head. He reads the instructions (no over-dosing now) and warnings and pops out a little red pill into his hand. He dry-swallows it in four seconds. He sets the box down (slightly dented from his feral grasp) on top of the toilet and waits for the effects to kick in. He drums his fingers, pushes more vials out of the way, rearranges the shelves.

A lonely box of laxatives stands at attention on the far right corner of the third shelf. Alfred pauses, thinks with half a brain for two seconds, and grabs this box as well. He opens the flaps, takes out a wrapped serving, and tosses the fake chocolate into his mouth. He chews quickly and swallows (it tastes like chalk and cat littler) without taking a breath.

There. Now he'll get all cleaned out. No more food, no more calories, no more fat, no more extra skin. He will be beautiful.

* * *

"Alfred, do you know where my prescription cold meds went?" Arthur sounds nasally and irritated, a deadly combination for the man. He's frumpy today (ah yes, frumpy, such a good Arthur word) and wearing his pajama pants and slippers around the house and oh _gosh_ his eyebrows are even more bodacious, if that's possible.

"Hm? Oh, no, sorry babe. Haven't seen any meds floating around," replies Alfred from behind his book. "What do they look like?

"Orange box, little red pills."

"I'll put out a house-wide BOLO."

"Deeply appreciated," and then Arthur's lifting up the mail for the sixth time and looking for the box in places where it can't possibly fit.

Alfred watches Arthur stumble into the kitchen where jars of fig jam and apple butter take up residence in his pantry. Thirty containers of yogurt, real butter, a bunch of carrots, rice, noodles . . . a container of leftover chicken in his refrigerator. Alfred had not seen such food items in his own house since they had given his cabinets a major face-lift and sent out bags and bags of food into soup kitchens. It's almost a foreign concept. But, food does not equate to cold medication and Arthur is off again.

He saunters (not elegantly at all) into the living area and collapses half on Alfred, half on his home-embroidered throw pillows. There is silence coated by Arthur's arid mouth breathing.

"If you're looking for pity, you aren't getting any," Alfred says. _King Arthur and His Knights _stays faithfully before Alfred's face and a fleece blanket covers Alfred's hunger-swelled belly.

"Of course not. I'd never expect it from you," Arthur muses. He hums to himself, then turns and looks Alfred straight in the eye as if his glasses were non-existent.

Alfred's eyes are far-off and aquatic, seeming to bear a milky film that bars his focus and comprehension (and it isn't because he's reading that book either). Arthur tilts his head to the side (as he does when considering 'matters of the most prominent authority') and observes unabashed. Glazing eyes, slow fingers turning pages, a warbled voice . . .

"You sure you haven't seen them?" The rise in pitch does nothing to mask the suspicion (if anything it accents it quite nicely) that is festering in Arthur's throat. The join of his jaw to his neck tingles and feels like it's swelling, much like it does when he is about to cry. Alfred sends him a look, and he responds quickly: "What? Just double checking and all that."

There is no questioning it now. Arthur turns to face Alfred completely, puffing out his chest and leveling his eyebrows into a sort of intimidating and furry line. (Oh, silly Alfred, not eating anything today and not having hunger pains; living through a filte r. . . Oh you stupid boy.) The stare Arthur gives Alfred is one of pure accusation and indignation. "Where are they?"

Alfred bends only slightly. He lowers the book and re-adjusts his blanket. "I said I 'unno. The bathroom? Jesus, Arthur, I didn't touch your stuff." He crosses his arms and tucks down like a defensive vulture with sharp shoulders rising. "God, it's more like you're missing your fucking _pill _instead of some cold meds." Oh, a menstruation joke. How quaint.

"Don't take that tone with me, Alfred." And now the big guns come out. "I swear, if you've been using––no no––_abusing _my prescriptions, so help me I'll––"

"You'll what, old man?" Alfred's far of voice rings with defiance (and balls; they finally dropped it seems). "Send me to my room? Good lord, Arthur, I'm not some stubborn teen-aged brat that's fucking with your stash. Cut me some slack." Then under his breath: "You're such a tweak sometimes . . ."

Arthur Kirkland now displays to the general public his ability to channel the defensive tactics of porpentines and just _shoots up _and out with quills of anger (and sometimes even his hair goes on end; it's quite the sight to behold). Furious does not begin to describe this fermenting burgundy in his blood. "Alfred Franklin Jones," he seethes, "you best not talk to me that way."

A hitch in the exchange bears the following: "Are you my dad reborn to torture me?" And Alfred is completely serious with this question. His penchant for ghosts catches Arthur off guard as he inquires, and for a moment the stolen medication is out of sight-out of mind. "Because lately you've been actin' all _funky_––"

Alfred's failure to read and understand the atmosphere comes back with a vengeance. (Wait, isn't Arthur still supposed to be mad? Ah! Yes! Because Alfred is being a dipshit, that's right!) Much like Arthur's porpentine reaction formation, Alfred has a thick coat of oblivion he can snuggle into when times are tough.

"What in the name of the Queen––No no no. Don't get me off topic. You're stealing my cold medications so you won't eat. That's what we're discussing and don't even think about––what, by George, are you doing––"

Time to take Ivan's approach. Feeling slightly promiscuous (or maybe he just wants to leave Arthur high and dry, either works, really) Alfred scoots forward with his body-warmed blanket and _drapes _himself across Arthur's sniffling form. "I told you already, I haven't seen it before; how could I use it?" He's so damn saccharine that it makes Arthur's molars ache.

Oh, he's such a _liar_. A warm, cozy, tempting liar, but a liar nonetheless. Arthur must steel himself! There is no letting down his guard _now._That'd be ridiculous. His hands and body stay where they are even though his very chromosomes are begging for him to do otherwise.

But, Alfred seems to sense this (Arthur's twitches but not the atmosphere . . . how odd these things work) and gives those damn puppy-dog eyes that got Arthur a week or so ago. He puffs out his perpetually cracked lips and let's his glasses slide down his nose. Even that crazed lock of spiked hair seems to bend more in the direction of temptation. "I didn't touch your pills, Arthur," he says once again. By now his mouth is just centimetres away and (dam_nation_) Arthur's infamous (and crotchety) libido is starting to kick in . . .

Two touches of the lips, almost painful in their brevity. Arthur's anger is exhaled through his nose as Alfred looks up at him with unfocused (and slightly crossed) eyes. Oh Alfred, you try much too hard to achieve hardly any ends. But Arthur, ever the gentleman, decides that such an instance should be indulged and leans forward.

He presses against the fleece of the blanket and nips a kiss at the end of Alfred's nose. They blink at each other, then move in tandem and bring their mouths together full-force. Five, six, seven seconds before Alfred pulls away and tries to calm is breath. Alfred _laughs _once his lungs finish spasming.

Wait just a minute––laughs? He's laughing? Son of a bitch that man is! Oh, Arthur you old fool, get your priorities straight! "Alfred Jones, you _harlot_," he grumbles. He shoves off the blanket, the blond fool, and returns to his quest of finding the cold meds of power (Tolkien, bless your heart).

* * *

Stowing away the pseudoephedrine is a bust. A plan a plan, his kingdom for a plan (heaven forbid he turns into Arthur; there is only so much English one man can take)! He can chew on a sponge . . . no, that's disgusting. God knows what Arthur cleans with that. He could only chew gum (five calories each you know) and never swallow . . . damnation above and below, his options are running out.

He paces around the house. The design of the ranch is convenient with its flat loop, making for the perfect track for a personal foot race. A constant left turn (just like Nascar, oh how fitting) from living room to hallway to kitchen to foyer to living room . . . He rounds and rounds twenty times at least, and the grout lines start to cut into his bare feet.

The constant hurried movement clears his head for the first time in what feels like months. The world passes by (there is the tree outside the kitchen window as per usual) without any knowledge of Alfred Jones, the man pacing through his house and through his life. The front drapes are pulled close to prevent any wandering eyes.

A constant beat is picked up from his feet on slate then wood then area rug. Pat pat, slap slap slap, thud thud. Metronome. And as he walks (sometimes he skips!) he thinks, mind more focused than ever. What can he do? What what what can he––

Yes! That's it! Alfred makes another left turn from the kitchen into the hall, and then into the living room. He places his fists at his hips and smiles at the furniture. Oh, what an _excellent_ plan he's come up with! And––and this way no one will suspect a thing and he'll be scot-free and, ah, the _free_dom!

* * *

He makes sure to only bring out his running shoes when no one else is home. Schedules must be booked and reservations must be made before the sneakers even get an inkling of thought of being brought out. Reconnaissance is a crucial part of this plan's success.

Low-cut socks, new running shoes, his old basketball shorts (number twelve with a cardinal's head embroidered beneath it) and that same sturdy metal water bottle. He stretches and tenses as his muscles have atrophied in the slightest. It seems that almost everything about him has shrunk, be it good or bad.

His calf muscles still bulge, however. Proud, hard, and oblong they remain. A memento and a promise for beautiful things to come. These too stretch, but flex more easily and do not burn or spasm. Ah! He's limber! Alfred stretches his body and legs like a cat and almost has the urge to go bask in the sun instead.

Outside the house he hesitates. Where to go, what to do . . . He runs in whichever direction is not impeded. Up bike paths, through lawns, over benches, passed seven churches (so many for such a town) and under three bridges. Blackberry bushes (invasive, those bastards) catch on his legs and shorts but he does not stop. Forward forward forward! Always running ahead. He trounces wet grass and muddied flowerbeds, frowning at the dirt on his shoes but he does not stop.

There is a dank grove of trees through the park (next to giant man-made 'dinosaur' bones made of concrete and rebar) and he heads straight towards them. _Thump thump thump_ onto the grass and moss, bark chips clash like shingles and bump up into the air. The air here is wet and cold and _brisk_––such a lovely change from the corrosive recycled atmosphere of his inherited house.

Slowly his lungs begin to burn. Acid and pins rush into his body and scream at him (stop! you're killing us! please oh lord!) from every nook and cranny of his torso. His organs tremble right down to his golgi bodies and ribosomes. Cell walls break down and lactic acid flows in even as he runs it out. Legs pump, blood flows, and macrophages rush in. His body churns within his skin.

The very thought of breathing hurts him. He thinks of taking five minutes to catch himself (but the crest is in sight; don't give up now!) or stand and stretch against the loam of the chipped trail in this coven of trees. But as his limbs and fingers ache, Alfred swears he can feel himself shrinking, collapsing into himself as fat cells are compacted more and more. He believes his body is compressing itself so quickly that he'll see changes within minutes. Magical biochemistry (oh if only it were true).

The motion of his arms follows the one-two of his knees. Arms straight and the knees shall follow; keep toes forward; look up at the destination, not down at the ground! By now, on top of his hill, his low-cut socks have been rubbed down by the heel of his shoe and his rippling at the base of his heel. A blister begins to pocket and fill with fluid. His toes and sides begin to cramp. The trail stretches on. Alfred continues to sprint at a painful pace and does not look back.

Every once and a while he becomes dizzy and can't tell if his water bottle is still in hand. He clenches both palms (just to double check; which hand was it again? Is the bottle metal?) and waits to feel some sort of weight. His fingers feel heavy and slow–cold? He doesn't feel cold, he feels hot and bristly and, and–the cramps swallow every part of him.

Chips splay up and out as his feet abruptly cease. Legs trembling––Alfred isn't sure if he knows what's happening to him. Suddenly he feels frozen and burning at once and he doubles over. Fire fire oh _god_ his throat is burning! He fumbles with his water bottle (why is this so hard to twist? This is an emergency–) and misses his mouth as he tries to drink. Throat muscles are out of tandem with his expanding trachea and he can't quite––

Before the water can make it down his esophagus (really only inches past his epiglottis) his innards briefly paralyze again and he coughs loud and hard. (It's _this _feeling again . . . he knows this feeling). Then a belch (all those gases must go somewhere) and Alfred is emptying his stomach onto the side of the path, halfway on top of a sword fern. It's white and yellow, small chunks of red and black which Alfred identifies as sorry remnants of his bloody nose earlier that morning. The sight of it makes him vomit once again, his imagination acting as a catalyst to his disgust.

His hands and shirt are damp from the splashed over water. He smells like sick (again) and moldy dirt. Glasses fogged and breath gone from his lungs like dropping sails on stagnant water. He is weak and sickly sweaty. It is only midday but Alfred feels clammy and tired. The fibers of his body are breaking down back into threads, then again into specks of wool. He wishes he could sleep and be unconscious or . . .

Standing is an intricate task to accomplish in this state. But Alfred is not one to give up (perseverance thy name is Jones!) in the face of such danger or . . . _smells_. He teeters once and leans into a friendly rowan tree.

There are no people around to witness the fallacy that is Alfred F. Jones. For a few moments he solemnly spits out sour saliva and remnant vomit. Wearily he feels the fuzzy acid of his teeth and pauses. After two minutes of shaky breathing and constant spitting, Alfred's tear ducts are triggered and he begins to cry.

He blames it on the dusty seeds on the bellies of the ferns. He blames it on the splintering wood of the chipped Douglas furs. He blames it on a fake head cold, his sudden sickness, his sheer exhaustion. But none of those point true.

Alfred is reduced down to his six-year-old self with the candidness of the action. His nose runs with his eyes, and soon his face is wet and sticky yet again. He is not experiencing a fit or a foul mood: this is giving up (what else can he do? He can't even _run_ anymore).

This is what he must do. This is the sacrifice he makes for his beauty, for his love-life. This is what he gives for his happiness. His body burns and tears at every joint and tendon. Layers of fascia between his skin and breathing muscles feel more like gravel and sea water than the layers of cells that make him strong. Amino acids, lipids; carbon and water. Every single time it's carbon and water. He is poisoning himself against the world, and never before has it hurt so much.

There is too much water around him. Water in the leaves, water in the loam, water on his face and in his eyes. He is drowning in so much water that is flowing in the wrong places. He needs to be dry; dehydration. Maybe he should stop drinking next.

* * *

_Black_ is the new black (and the old navy blue), coincidentally. It remains and stands alone as the one true colour to remove the shapes from bodies and bend them into new angles. Sweet, dark, thick-molasses-black. Worn at funerals, worn at classy parties, worn to show wealth, worn to show evil, worn to show seclusion; worn to _hide_ the body. The mind, too. And the feelings and––and the fat fat fat fat.

He bears it like a second skin (like Hamlet; not but two months _starved_–nay, not so _little_, not two*). Not _all_ black though. No no no. This is not depression but (supposedly) high fashion (silly it is to think him scorned). Alfred takes to long-sleeved knits, light sweaters, dark blankets: all things to make him look small. (To set things off her wears grey sweatpants or red running shorts. Sagging Levi's if need be.)

Under his turtlenecks (to block out the mid-December chill and melancholy) Alfred's jutting frame, his bastion of bones and tents of skin are hidden. He takes great pride in seeing his dramatic hourglass figure without the macabre ghost of a person looking back in his mirror. The thermals of his black clothes toast him and unconsciously bring him closer to his housemates (lovers?).

He's a silhouette against the walls of the hallway and the doorways to the kitchen. Sometimes, when he's sure no one is looking (but in reality both Ivan and Arthur are, they just don't tell him) he slinks like a cat along the edges of carpets or corners, sliding on the doorways to the kitchen.

"I am the night," he says to the empty house (Batman is a perfect remedy). He wears wool socks to add to the affect and _woosh_ for once his body does not disgust him too thoroughly. Covered in black he is strong and _thin_.

The daylight hours are when he is noticed the most. Under quasi-house arrest he is starved for attention and recognition; he relies on these two for the social stimulation all other humans receive daily. Black fills in the void like caulk to a gap in a windowsill. It is the worldwide fix-all.

Arthur sits among small houses of paperwork and pens scribbling his name here and there, circling incorrect apostrophes and semi-colons out of habit ("It makes the whole firm seem more professional, after all."). His print is neat and fine, a luxurious curve that puts a page of Times New Roman into kinder light. Alfred can hardly see it with his glasses.

Wearing his black under-armor and threadbare grey sweatpants, Alfred plans his attack (pounce he will like a mighty panther!). His favourite blue woolen socks pad the planned pursuit (yes, yet again alliteration!) and he sneaks behind the whitewashed doorframe. The fabric of his shirt is pulled awkwardly over his elastic bandage (like all other things, Alfred can't quite give it up) secured at his waist and ridding down to his butterflying hips. He looks somewhat bloated but refuses to admit it.

Without warning the floor begins to creak and dip ever so slightly behind him (this sub-flooring is absolute trite) and almost spoils the plot. A rapid turn around and– "Ivan, what the hell? Can't you see I'm Black Op-ing it right now?" Alfred's eyes narrow below his glasses. "Jesus," he mutters.

A touch to the elbow. "Ah, I do apologize. I had no idea 'Black Op-ing' presented itself as such." Ivan's whisper is amused and his smile is all teeth. "Please don't let me interrupt."

Alfred brings a finger to his lips and brings his eyebrows together. He turns about-face and rolls his eyes to himself. When he pokes his head around the doorframe once more, Arthur is gone: chair empty, papers stacked, stapled, and safe within his ajar briefcase. There is a cup of tea on the mahogany table, but no man sipping it.

He whips around to face Ivan once again and sends him a foggy-eyed glare (he found the pseudoephedrine again, not that Arthur hid it well). "You," he asserts.

"Me," Ivan quips happily.

"Now my cover's blown. Thanks a lot gigantor." Agitation is dripping from every single tooth and vessel in his mouth.

"You are welcome!" Ivan exclaims. He is somewhat happier than he should be and it raises a deep red suspicion in Alfred's weakened heart.

Once again Alfred huffs and turns back to the kitchen table and–Arthur? Wait, what, _how _did he––?

Dusky eyebrows take up his field of vision as Arthur stands only a foot or so away from him with a brilliant frown set into his face. Alfred looks three times as pale against the black of his jersey knit. He turns to leave but Ivan (and his faithful bulk) block his way. How is it that Alfred is so often cornered by these two?

"Alfred," comes Arthur (who is more Jagara or Pumyra-like than he should be, since they are the _female _Thundercats; Ivan would be Ben-Gali, which means that Alfred himself would be Lion-O, obviously).

"Hm?"

"We need to talk."

Panic churns into Alfred's blood at this statement. "Why's that? We're talking right now." His face is forward but his eyes streaking across the room. "Don't need to sound so ominous, babe," he tries.

"Don't even think of it," Arthur snaps. Ivan nods his head in agreement and a helpful "Because you say such stupid things some times."

"Don't think about you? Well, if you insist." The tone he uses is jocular and light, wavering as much as his gaze.

"Damn it, knock if off!" Arthur is shouting at him. High blood pressure makes his white English skin tinge a pinkish-orange. He stomps a shoe-shined foot and pops his chin up in a superiority reflex (or it's that porpentine kicking in again, he's not so sure). Arthur's face does not crack an inch as the silence weighs visibly down on Alfred's mind.

Alfred starts to smooth out his pants but quickly evolves into impulsively rubbing his hands on the thinning fabric. Up down, up down, up down, breath. Arthur looks straight ahead while Alfred refuses to keep his eyes still, let alone on Arthur's face. He turns to Ivan (silent as always, ugh) whom is smiling down at him with closed eyes. He looks like ghost in the fluorescent lighting and it serves to encourage Alfred's rampant hands.

"I'm sorry," he starts. "I'm sorry, I am, I didn't want to take them but my _head_ hurt and there was nothing else, and then I got sick and––I didn't _do_ anything!" Guilt morphs suddenly into rage and indignation. "_Fuck_," is but a whimper.

He tries to leave but is yanked back by Arthur's needle-pointed fingers. "No, Alfred. We need to talk. I'm _tired _of this––I can't keep on taking care of you––"

"Taking _care_ of me?" Alfred returns now on his own account. "Am I some sort of sickly project for you?" (if you listen carefully there is hurt right there). He looks back for help or solace but Ivan has removed himself from the equation (that sneaking bastard god _damn_).

"Is it so bad to ask for some sodding _gratitude_ once in a while?" Arthur is snapping in slow motion. "Do you even know what this is doing to me? This isn't just you, Alfred. This is me, this is Ivan, this is the god damned firm even." He's getting gravely like creek water. "No one thinks you'll even _live_ through this; did you know that? _No one._And yet here I am, and by god I better not be wasting my life."

Alfred stares at him (wonder, disbelief?). "Am I some experiment for you?"

Arthur does not answer for a few moments. "No, of course you aren't," he says flatly.

"Then why the fuck are you so _mad _at me?" He is back to playing with his hands and pulling on the hair on the back of his head. "What are you so worried about?"

"That everyone else is right," is the most truthful thing Arthur has ever said.

There are too many emotions caught in this spider web of sterols and phospholipids. Alfred counts them like the crisped blueberries in the two hundred calorie scones that Arthur presents to him a day later. He tries to pick them out of the hand made confections, but they prove to be far too baked in.

In a silent apology Arthur sits with Alfred at that same mahogany table in the open kitchen. Alfred watches him hem the frayed and stepped-on edges of his pajama pants without any words exchanged or even thought. The sit side by side and bump knees and hands.

Both faces stare down directly in front of them, completely involved with their tasks (physically, at least). Alfred's eyes are half-mast behind his glasses (sliding down his nose . . .) while Arthur is wide-eyed and intent on the fine needlework. As Alfred picks apart the singed scone, Arthur secretly threads initials into the pant leg. Finishing the knot he bites the excess off and lets his hands fall hard on the table, a shock going through his protruding wrist bone.

Alfred pretends to pay no notice, but lazily covers Arthur's hand with his own (the one not ripping purpling berries to bits and flecks of skin). He keeps straight ahead and steeples their fingers in a two-layered weave.

Arthur's green eyes wet slightly and he turns his head. He opens his mouth to speak––

"I know," Alfred says. "Don't worry, I know."

The amount of sincerity that Alfred gives to the sundered scone in his cornflower gaze makes them cry indigo tears into the bread of the scone.

* * *

There are soft brushes to the mountain range of his vertebrae as he leans over the toilet. His shoulders roll forward as he vomits for the fourth time in the last hour. The knuckles on his right hand clutch the seat above his head and are chewed and stinging once again. He promised Arthur he would stop but it was just so _hard_.

A wrangled cry from the pain in his emptying chest (of air, water, stomach and voice) echoes slightly in the toilet bowl. His body pulses forward again and again, knocking his knees into the base of the toilet and occasionally the plunger. His hair (now dulling again with this relapse) is flat and hard against his head, matted down into a sort of flaxen shell about his pate. Cold fingers brush stray locks out of his eyes.

Behind him sits Ivan, broad back trapping down the hanging towels on the wall. His hands extend to rub and reassure Alfred's back and scalp as the other wretches. Alfred hasn't heard a word from the man but can sense the verbs and nouns that are waiting in Ivan's mouth.

Alfred pants and flushes as he finishes expelling gastric acids and liver secretions. He rests for a moment before reaching for the stationary cup with water and toothbrush and lethargically (but methodically) rinsing out his mouth.

He collapses against Ivan's open chest (and spreading legs) and shakes with fever and chills. The embrace he receives is the most comforting thing he's entertained for a while and gladly accepts it.

"I'm disgusting," he bemoans.

Ivan smiles again (with his mouth but not his eyes) and gathers him in. "Yes, but I do not mind."

"Glad one of us doesn't," is swelling with apathy.

Ivan's fingers rub small circles on his solar plexus that travel down to Alfred's stomach. They are tender and light touches that temporarily make the sour pang of retching vanish. "Do you feel well now?" Ivan asks. The massage goes to the flat of Alfred's hips and releases the hunched-over tension.

"Yeah, I do." Alfred turns into Ivan's pectoral and nuzzles the clothed join of chest to shoulder.

Embrace tightens and legs draw up into an all-natural cage. Delicately Alfred is pressed (still nauseous and all pin-pricks) into Ivan. "You are quite beautiful. You know this, yes?"

Alfred gathers a flush on top of the hundreds of burst capillaries painting his cheeks and mouth. "Not yet I'm not," he refutes. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe without bringing himself to vomit once more. The bizarre angle and shape of his body makes him lurch and shudder in discomfort.

"I would have to disagree," Ivan purrs into his ear (damn, that's becoming a weak spot) and covers Alfred's cheek with a sigh. "You must relax now, Alfred." He rocks himself back and forth to try and palliate the throb of Alfred's center.

"No, I'm not _there yet_," and he tries to put his fingers down his throat for the fifth time that night.

"Nyet. You are done for now," Ivan brings his arm up and pins back the advancing hands. (For now, for now! That's what he said.) "You are hurting yourself . . ." and this bears some remorseful tone.

"No, I'm _not_," Alfred stresses. He trembles too much to break free but tries nonetheless. "God, I'm nowhere close. I can't, I––I can't yet!" Hysterics in the presence of another. "You have no idea," he whispers. "No idea of what they say to me."

Ivan frowns. "Who says these things?"

"Oh _god," _Alfred whines. "No one. Absolutely no one." And there's the rub of it.

* * *

Alfred thinks that his obsessive fat destruction has served as an obscure aphrodisiac to Ivan. This may all be speculation, but the feelings are there. The _advances_ are there. And oh how it makes Alfred's heart just quiver with excitement and joy; his work and dedication have reaped a profit! How beautiful he must look to Ivan these days with taught skin and flat ass and shoulders lean and strong. Herculean, if he could venture a guess.

Ivan has him cornered in his bedroom this time. He is recovering from being discovered before his faithful full-body mirror, half naked and arms flexed above his head. Alfred has some of the original copper of his suntan back in his pigment, and he feels more confident in his looks. Standing cornered adjacent to his mirror seems like a lucky reward for his perseverance and supreme wit over Arthur (and Ivan, at times).

The scarf that coils around Ivan's neck dangles between them, brushing against his tiny (no longer so swelled) stomach and extended forearms. The fine thread count and four-way stretch knit creates little friction but puts standing flame upon Alfred's skin. Oh, fabrics like _that_.

Ivan's lips are perchance Alfred's favourite aspect of Ivan's entire body (that he knows as of yet, oh ho ho) and he is more than pleased that they are meeting with his own at this very moment. Mmm, what a nice way to be distracted from the desire to eat (oh, but Ivan tastes like eucalyptus and lavender, why does he taste like lavender?). They move together for a few moments and then . . . finally! Tongues touch (after much too long) and Alfred's shaking returns, though a tad more pleasant this time.

The bones in Alfred's body seem to move forward to present themselves to Ivan's searching hands. His hips jut out, his ribs ripple into layers, and even the transverse muscles of his hip flexors stiffen and contract to add sub-epidural texture. The fine blond hairs on his body raise in their goose bumps and straighten. Ivan's hand smoothes them down, following contours of muscle and detours of joints until every exposed inch of Alfred's chest has been checked over, and the great strength of Ivan's fingers rest on Alfred's pelvis.

For some reason there is still a dun greatcoat and the clothes it covers on Ivan's frame (this seems a tad unfair, after all Alfred's standing commando in sweatpants). "Hm, too many––" he tries to break from the kiss to get a word or two out but–– "––clothes," ––that proves almost impossible. Ivan is a tad demanding and, well, who is Alfred to refuse that? Not Arthur, that's for damn sure.

"Right," Ivan answers. Without removing his mouth (godsend that is right there) he slides off his greatcoat, frees his tie (beneath his scarf, how handy), removes his belt and starts on his shirt. Dear _god _is this some hidden Russian talent? If it is, Ivan should really milk it for all it's worth. Who knows how many singles this man could get just from walking into a bar and taking off his jacket.

Layers of clothing fall to the floor until the two of them brush chests, the cotton of Ivan's scarf sandwiching between muscle and malnourishment. Alfred still has his sweatpants (sans underwear that he never actually had in the first place) and Ivan's slacks are untouched, but the feelings are still there.

"I very much enjoy this," Ivan says as he holds his face against Alfred's distinct collarbone. He follows the rivets of old scratches across Alfred's chest and the lines of where something wrapped long and tight about his torso. "When you are so small . . . it pleases me, yes?" He is hushed and slightly slurred and ah, English can be difficult when in situations of great exigency, such as now.

Alfred's heart seems to erupt from its pericardium from enthrallment. "Yeah?" comes breathless. Ivan can feel the pulse through his cheek.

"Hmm, yes. Very much."

Tears threaten Alfred's eyes. This is exactly it, everything he's been working for. He brings his head down to smell Ivan's hair and his inhale is rickety. He kisses the scalp and ear and everything else he can reach with Ivan's head still down against the sheets of his skin. He is ecstatic in the truest sense of the word: out of his body. Out and away, residing in this new form that serves to earn this attention.

The next moments are quiet and quick. More kisses on skin, more hands, more words to egg Alfred on and take the movements that Ivan gives him. The scarf comes off of Ivan's neck and slides around Alfred's and tied into a flopping off-white ribbon. It looks stupid beyond belief but Alfred makes no effort to remove the article. (This is everything! This is the final marker of his great accomplishment, the reward that will last his life through. Expectations! You have been met tenfold!)

Alfred feels like a great muse above is conducting his body like a piece of languid sheet music. He whispers a high note to be followed by Ivan's alto response. A breath to break, pianissimo, then every few brushes of fingers to spine he will crescendo (and go sharp, no doubt). Alfred has never been one for music or rhythm, but this time he carries the tune according to instruction. He feels like a euphoric symphony, all strings and woodwinds that mesh into a golden harmony.

There are no words to this movement, simply throaty sounds and the melody in their brains. Ivan plays Alfred's body like a master and elicits a tune that he easily commits to memory. Maestro and instrument working in tandem and oh how _sweet _it all is. The heartbeat under Alfred's thinning skin and cresting veins gives a metronome and tries to guide them to a finish (with cymbals and all).

But instead of working up, the instruments are eased off, and they slow down. A hush entraps Alfred's mind. Then a final note is played by Ivan: "I like to know that I can break you."


	3. Metamorphose

**Balls.**

**NOTE: 11 April, 2011––Edit and re-upload to remove horrible grammar errors. No new content, just reads better.**

* * *

Traitor. The heaviest word in any language, it carries the weight of dead bodies, minds, and the discarded trust that follow it. A single noun of seven letters (three vowels and four consonants, at least in this alphabet) that brings the worst of any addressed as such. "A person who betrays his country, a cause, or trust, especially one who commits treason." (Courtesy of the American Heritage Dictionary, p. 1285.) A cheater of trust, that sacred attribute of integrity and respect. A traitor is the one that drowns in mountains of ostracons.

Alfred stays locked within his bedroom for four solid days. The mood of the house sits awkward (two men sharing a half-bath can do that) and unbalanced. The padding of feet in circles through the foyer is gone and replaced with steady rainfall on the skylight. Traitor, though only said once, descends like a curtain of smoke waiting to ignite.

A knock on the door.

He does not answer it, just like the others. He has nourishment enough to not pass out and, when both Arthur and Ivan leave to bicker at the office, Alfred prowls out like a sedated panther.

The knock reintroduces itself. "Not interested," he says to it. The polyester-cotton blend of his pillowcases muffle the words.

Three more heavy taps. _I. Don't. Care._

Alfred responds by throwing a copy of _Agamemnon_ at the door (the spine makes a lovely sound upon collision). His hand lingers over _Antigone, Dubliners, _and _A Farewell to Arms._Hefty stories that carry the weight of the world.

A pall. Traitor traitor _traitor_. Such a lying bastard.

A state of Zen is presented and Alfred's breathing shallows and mutes. (System shutting down. If nothing is done system will continue to shut down in fifty-nine seconds, fifty-eight seconds, fifty-seven seconds . . .)

"I do hope those aren't my novels you're tossing like refuse in there."

Although the pendulum of the clock on the wall still swings, the hands are not moving and the hour is incorrect.

"At least make sure you use the hardbacks; they can take the abuse."

Alfred turns to face the one-sided conversation. His knee stabs into a pair of needle-nosed tweezers and his forehead busses a container of mouthwash. A half-eaten carton of cottage cheese meets his elbow.

"And feel free to toss Jane Austin," the monologue continues. "Too many bloody Johns in those books. Damn feminist writers . . ."

Alfred thinks that maybe he should say something but the chances of his words twisting under Ivan's fingers eventually are much too great. Five minutes pass (he counts the tocks of the pendulum) and the voices seem to shut off. Hibernation is what this is for his tattered body. (Right now his cells are in overdrive, the rough endoplasmic reticulum shooting proteins and fats like mad through cytoplasm. Proteins expand to let in salts.)

"At least unlock the door––he isn't here right now. It's just me, love." But Alfred does not move. In his head plays 'Et tu, Brute?' over and over like an emptying spool of film. And while he watches the hairs and spots on the black and white reel there is a crunch and click. A jiggling at the lock as metal scrapes against metal. Four hundred and twenty seconds later the lock fails the jam and the door swings open.

Arthur shies in and pockets something. Alfred watches him like a basking lizard (slow blinking, tongue flicking out occasionally) as he weaves through the room's disarray. The bathroom and closet are gutted and spitting out shirts, sweaters, packets of floss, shoes, a case of contacts, an empty box of laxatives . . . The floor is almost indistinguishable. A broken pair of glasses sits upon the bedside table next to a shattered hand-mirror.

Dirtied socks gush out in a rivet like water flowing down paths of least resistance. Ties are in knots and crumpled into adjoining balls. A cabin built of toothpicks sits upon an overturned shoe. The air smells like water damage, moth balls, and sick.

"A tumult's been through here," mutters Arthur. He picks his way to the bed covered with household flotsam. He clears a spot and sits down, picking up Alfred's legs and setting them on his lap. (This is the scene where Arthur notices the thick calf muscles that clutch onto Alfred's legs. They look unusual and offsetting on the rods of Alfred's ankles.) He runs his fingers over the parchment-flesh and feels the blood vessels constrict. Arthur lets out a puff of air through his nose, much like the _prusten_ of a tiger.

No noise is made from either man as they sit and observe the rush of fabrics and foods over the floor like a carpet of thick moss. Alfred has a series of mild twitches and buries his head farther into the cave of his arms. A scent resembling old urine crosses Arthur's nose, and he holds his breath.

A moment inside Arthur's mind: There is a molding jar of apple butter that's been lidded and resealed though the threads mismatch. A pair of his own metal knitting needles hang onto a drab green sweater arm. He lists and categorizes what he sees (tries to remember if he misplaced any of these things) and works his fingers to preform a deep-tissue massage. One or two times he stresses bone with his finger pads.

He is thinking about how hard it must be for Alfred's heart to move its blood from ventricle to atrium to body. How fast the skin cells under his fingers are sliding off and becoming the layer of dust on the mantelpiece beyond the door; If Alfred's breathing is the same as it was three years ago; When the body will no longer tolerate the mind and how it will cast off.

He holds onto the fabric of the comforter as his facial muscles fail him. His eyes watch (his brain does not comprehend) the body before him. Arthur is no longer in himself, but somewhere farther above. He is removed from the breaking down of his own body as mucous membranes secrete and eyelids push out dust and reality. He watches himself and floats through the air with the foul perfume of bodily expulsions.

Back into the fray now.

As Arthur has sinks into a bog of pity and remorse, Alfred's heart jolts and misses, then over-compensates and kicks in an extra beat with the next. He experiences his first premature ventricular (or was it atrial) contraction. Two waves of electric pulses bump into one another as the sinoatrial node misfires. His chest squeezes (his blood cells feel confused and trapped in the bowl of his heart) and for a moment he feels unable to swallow. He hitches his breath and closes his eyes. His heart feels like it sits in his mouth and, briefly, he joins Arthur outside of their bodies looking in.

Petechial hemorrhaging rears its ugly head and tries to pick into Alfred's eyes. Blood vessels bulge under pressure, then sink back into remission. Elastic veins hold on, exerting ATB cell by cell and rebuild. The eyes stay white but he is off-focused as if cataracts are fogging up behind the lens.

His skin is stale and his mouth is dry. Closure comes in a wave as his diaphragm clenches, then his lungs, his heart (once again), his trachea, his esophagus, his teeth. Colours turn too bright, Arthur too heavy beneath his legs, and Alfred tries to eat himself into his own chest. (There he is as a small boy, bright blond and blue-eyed with a happy cake-covered grin on his face; now he is sixteen and on his first date; here he learns about condoms and homosexual relations; he blinks as he is twenty-two and shitfaced and stumbling into his car. Memories spin into a feeble yarn and pull taut.)

He sees the toilet from the ajar door to his adjoined bathroom. The mirror is next to it, and the dried form of a human that lies before it tears his lungs asunder. Alfred chokes a sob and shudders, pulls against a pair of something that's holding his legs down. He smells, looks, and tastes like vomit and bleeding gums; the air gets thick with those heady smells and crushes down on him, suffocating the already rattling heart. Death curtsies, so he bows, and they go to grab hands––

Then, it passes. The arrhythmia leaves its mark, but does no more. Alfred's body and blood are tagged, temporarily shaken, but then stream back into routine. The cartilage in his ribs bends inward (or at least feel as though they are––dear _god _what a sensation) and close around his heart and lungs. Alfred tastes the faintest hints of copper and russet on his soft palate.

He coughs (hacks his lungs) and reaches for his glasses. This is the behavior that catches both of them off guard. Broken frames are helpful to no one, yet Alfred claws at them with every inch of his life left. Cold takes up his fingertips and oh, so tempting it is. (His eyes blink and look everywhere, somewhere for an outlet or a magnifying glass.)

Arthur reaches over him and grabs the blue felt case of Alfred's back-up glasses. He fumbles the case open (damn magnet catching and––ugh god damn) and pushes them onto Alfred's face. He's sitting up now and shaking, kicking Arthur's loin with his heels.

It feels like a cherry stone is lodged in his chest––halfway down his esophagus between his heart and gut. He can feel the little sprout poke into his internal system growing leaf-by-leaf and spreading. It sucks up his blood, takes in his pigments, and festers. The tree grows already rotten and black with thick serrated leaves. Sticky cherry sap clings to every inch of insides and coats every pore. The tree continues to grow, boughs and roots swallowing and tripping him up. The wood is hardy and inky-black. (Take an ax and chop it down; go go go! Cut out the rot!) The tree bears fruit inside his nerves, and for a moment Alfred feels anything and everything all at once.

"H-h-ch-ch-chk-" guttural sounds fall out. He spits up and soils himself. "Holy shit––oh––" Alfred sputters. He's gasping for breath (his body is almost back to norm by now though his mind is far from it) and grabbing everything. Eyes still looking and searching (though now much clearer) and he folds up on his knees. The muscles of his chest and shoulders contract and force him into a sphere, a human puzzle of limbs. Protect the heart. "Arthur––" and his voice cracks and is carried away. He salivates uncontrollably and stains his bedsheets.

But before Arthur can answer, a rough chill slides down his back. The air feels like streaming ice (he's hydroplaning, he can tell) and his hands shake in their grip of Alfred's shoulders. The two of them lock eyes and––

Reflecting off of Alfred's glasses is the face of the person who is killing him. _Traitor._

* * *

The near-death instance is not mentioned to Ivan. Arthur cleans Alfred's room, Alfred hydrates himself for a few hours, and the two of them keep their distance. (They play a game of The Floor Is Lava and jump around the house to avoid wandering gazes.)

But Ivan is not a stupid man, no no no, far from it really. In this day and age in this field of work a stupid man is a starving man. And Ivan is not starving, not by any means. In fact he's rather built up and thick, a great totem of a man.

And so he notices when Arthur begins to skirt around the table and almost hide like a rabbit kit with ears down and legs quivering. As for Alfred, well, that man is as active as a sedated rhinoceros. He's sure that birds would end up pecking on him if left out in the urban jungle.

"Little Arthur!" he calls. Arthur turns and bats his eyelashes (blinking rather, but Ivan likes to think otherwise) above a stilled frown. "Ah yes, my small friend. Please, come speak with me, if you wouldn't mind." Ivan smiles and closes his eyes as he is wont to do but no crows feet crinkle his face.

"You see, my dear, I have been watching around the house, yes? And you are walking … strangely, I suppose." Ivan leads Arthur into the sitting room and looks out the window. "Like a crab around water," he offers. Arthur frowns at the mental image (is this some sort of awkward height joke? A strange kind of short legged walking reference?).

Ivan reads Arthur's face like a large print child's book. "Ah, yes, you see, you hide from dear Alfred within the house! Like little wolves you are, circling one another." Ivan laughs shortly with a forced sort of plastic smile. "Oh, no no no. Not wolves. More like stupid birds caught in an updrift."

Arthur is perplexed by the sheer amount of animal similies Ivan is pulling out of the folds of his long scarf. A crab, a wolf, a bird? What in the name of––

"Know that I will find what you have done, little Arthur." Ivan's tone is dry and stark as powdered snow on mountains. "And once I do, you will be the next to break."

* * *

The hospital smells like instant mashed potatoes and carnival balloons. There is hardly a sterile sniff in the hallway (despite all those descriptions he reads about), and the lights are only harsh against the blue and white alternating floor tiles. A fake stone wall bends in from the entrance of the Emergency Room (a pregnant woman is pacing on her cell phone; an old man sits with a small boy in the corner chairs not looking at anything).

"Down the hall to your left. Keep going until you see the Surgery Reception desk and just diagonally onto the left there'll be a wooden door. Blood lab is through there." The secretary gives Alfred a clean, white smile and plays with an accordion stack of sticky notes.

"Hey, thanks," and he's off with a nod of the head.

It's December and Alfred's thongs _flack flack flack_ against the waxed floor. (He would have worn his running shoes but Arthur's hid them and Ivan won't talk to him.) He passes two elevators on his left, a male nurse escorting a gurney out.

The blood lab is crowded with teenagers and what Alfred believes is a prostitute. He grabs a clipboard, a Highlights magazine, and a ballpoint pen. He finds the slice of pie in the tree, the needle as the old woman's bun pin, and discloses weight and height on his medical form: Five feet nine inches, one-hundred and ten pounds. He smiles as he dots down the numbers, no shame, no worry.

Within the packet of Alfred's skin his blood is churning and streaming, hot and ready. His tongue runs along the back of his teeth, his eyelids rise and fall, his stomach churns and his skin goose-bumps from the chill of the lab. The muscles of his heart quiver and murmur, tissues not quite in sync. The pericardium sloshes about the heart and tries to keep order but electrical currents override it. Another misfire and another spasm. This one goes by undetected.

"Mister Jones," says an older woman in flowered scrubs. She holds up a clipboard that holds the future of Alfred's organ systems. He stands and he follows.

* * *

"Bloody _hell!" _Arthur screams. Papers fly across the room, a manila folder torn and in shreds smacks him deftly in the face.

Ivan growls at him with a wide-eyed glare. Pure madness encases his face and body (his mind is long gone, as far as anyone can guess). "_Wretch!"_he yells. "Stupid little man!" He hurls a fist forward (and throws his solid mass of a body along with it) at Arthur's form against the outward wall.

A broken window catches a piece of the black leather gloves on Ivan's hands. The D.C. winter touches skin for a shaving of a second before he retracts the limb and forces it at an adjusted target: a soft and Caucasian face. A tea kettle catches him unawares and leaves a heavy echoing crack and a spidering cut on his face.

The cordless telephone follows shortly after and dents the wall behind him with a three centimetre blemish. Ivan throws off his jacket and scarf, grabbing Arthur by the hair and catching him between the wall and his own body. Arthur is broadsided by the grapple and is stunned for a few moments. Ivan snaps and takes back his hand and bats as hard as he can on the little cheekbones before him. (Ah, how wonderful to have such height on this little man!)

After the first hit Arthur snaps back like a flapping fish and tries to grab the neck of his trapper. No avail.

Ivan grabs onto Arthur's hip with a heavy grip, squeezing to get as many bruises as possible. Arthur shouts and growls at him (that one really is a lion, or a tiger, and he is a bear himself, oh my!). He is clawed at with little white fingers turned weapon. No threat, those.

He uses his height to his advantage and leans down –no, smothers– over the smaller. "I will break you––" An umbrella stabs into his side. He looks down as the other brings up the cordless phone with his toes. "You've ruined him, ruined! You're a killer, little Arthur––"

"M-me?" Arthur coughs. "Fucking _bastard_––" is cut off by the crook of Ivan's thick arm. He is muffled and tries to bite but his little teeth don't even scathe the tight knit of the shirt.

The door unlocks to their left. Ivan squeezes with all of his might before letting go and making as much distance between the two of them as possible. Arthur shudders a breath and coughs, clenching his hands. The door opens; he picks up a book and pretends to read; the other collects the phone and straightens his clothes.

* * *

Ivan is glowering when Alfred wobbles into the sitting room. He is chewing on a toothpick opposite from Arthur, who's cradling his own vice: a wisping cup of Darjeeling tea. The house has expanded into a western standoff (much to Alfred's childish and oblivious enjoyment) as the two men deadlock their gazes. Ivan is looking down his prominent nose and trying to kill Arthur with simple direct thoughts.

"Good morning, Alfred," Ivan greets him without turning his head or sweeping his eyes. He spins the toothpick between rough and large fingers. The gash on his face is sutured and dressed, albeit hastily, and ironically matches his scarf.

Alfred raises his eyebrows and vaguely nods.

"Top of the morning, love." Arthur, however, makes direct contact and even smiles, _smiles _at Alfred with all of his pearly (and slightly crooked) teeth. His northern English accent is thicker this morning, and bears a weight of finality in each word. Purple and black covers the side of his face unabashed.

"Uhm, hey," says Alfred. Shifting uncomfortably, Alfred skirts around the duo, rubbing his elbows that jut out into his fingers. He catches the opposite side of Arthur's strategically turned face. "Jesus _christ_, Arthur, what happened?" Two thin steps and he's at the table. The two housemates go back to their battle of will.

"Nothing." Black and sharp like obsidian.

Alfred doesn't take the dismissal. "Hey now, if someone is beating the shit out of you–" (Ivan smiles a bit; he recognizes his handy work!) "––you should _tell me._For godsake, Arthur, you're not the fucking Lone Ranger." If Alfred continues to crease his forehead like such he'll end up with horrible worry lines. "Because I would be Tonto …" he mutters.

"Bollocks." Arthur cuts Alfred off, lips drawn tight around the hard K. "I stumbled upon an … I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yes." Ivan gives an innocent smile in return to match Arthur's impressive one-sided scowl. "Alfred, sit down, please. You're being rude just circling." The tone of voice is nothing to go unnoticed. The bruise catches as Arthur tries to fold over his glare, and it forces his face to stay flat.

"Hey, no need to be so aggressive," and Alfred bows his head. He does not take a seat.

Finally, the silent (not-so-friendly-giant) counterpart steps in. "Little Arthur was preoccupied on his way from the office, do not worry." Ivan's voice is light and springing along with flicks and spots of slurred letters. He smiles crookedly away from his cut. (This is Western Europe fighting Eastern Europe for the liberation of the heartland.) "Something to eat?" but the sentiment is entirely fake.

"Oh, no. I'm good, thanks," says Alfred.

"Very well," and Ivan brightens like the borealis.

"You'll be dead by the end of the week with that attitude," Arthur growls. He bares his teeth and furrows his brow. Truly he is a large feral cat. (Witness the unfurling of the wings of Mother Hen Arthur, a most intimidating creature.) He switches targets. "For the love of god, Ivan, you're killing him." Arthur forces himself to let go of his teacup in fear of damaging it and his hand. The threat curls around the room but does not rise in volume.

"Hmm, I doubt that."

The chair Alfred leans on is hard and too big and it makes his arms hurt (though it could be because he has no fat there anymore) and – he really cannot handling yelling right now. Loud noises and Alfred never really mixed. Please, Arthur, don't raise your voice!

"Because this way," Ivan picks up again, "Alfred is no longer intolerable." Alfred looks crestfallen and turns his gaze down to his chair – but he's tried so hard! He . . . he wasn't _ugly_, was he? Before?

A laugh (small, afraid, very much Ivan) pokes out and flies over Arthur's threat. Eventually it settles on Alfred and stings him with a knotted barb.

"Get. Out." The words that come out of Arthur's mouth are skinned to their bare bones from the proximity of his teeth. "Now, you useless bastard." Arthur gets to his feet and slams his palm onto the face of the table. (Alfred, to the side, is hiding his face and closing his eyes, trying to bat away his fear of loud noise.)

Ivan takes no heed of this. Sophistry, that's all this is. Delicious, useless, tactless sophistry. How wonderful. Ivan bites off the top of the toothpick and spits it onto the table near Arthur's hand. He looks up at Alfred and blinks heavy indigo eyes at him.

"Son of a bitch!" Yelling cracks the atmosphere like fireworks in a July sky. (Ivan, oh, what an arsemonger he is. Contemptible bastard child of a banshee that –)

Ivan doesn't quite remember ever being punched so hard in the nose before.

* * *

An EKG, or Echocardiogram (from the German root) is one of the few machines that will ever let a man experience an ultrasound. The M-mode echo can only do so much, so the technician takes another; a two-dimensional echo is called for and slices of Alfred's heart are taken with delicate beats and waves.

The gel is cold on Alfred's chest but he quickly pushes it aside as the electrodes are placed on his bare skin. His torso is coated like that of a newborn – a newborn drastically underweight and resembling a man in Auschwitz photographs. Prenatal fluid over crags and cliffs of human flesh and (somewhat) beating heart.

Alfred turns his head away and removes his glasses. Arthur isn't there, Ivan isn't there, the doctors are just faceless parts of a greater (nonprofit) machine. But, he doesn't want to know. He has seen his flaws, he has felt his own heartbeat. No, there is nothing _wrong_ with Alfred; Alfred is beautiful and perfect and golden. He has taut skin and firm muscles, and – and Arthur loves him! There's iron and oxygen in his blood, he drinks water, he reduces salt – by god he isn't dying. There's no way he could be. . .

The room is so goddamn cold that Alfred can feel every hair follicle on his body perk up and his nipples follow suit. Dam_nation _he should have taken the paper gown. He hums slightly so the sound fills his ears so no blips and bleats can be heard. The green lines crest and fall but Alfred looks away. Then, the arrhythmia breaks the surface and the noise of the machine tweaks and reverberates through the room. Alfred blinks once, twice, then stares blankly at the khaki wall.

Wires and sticky film are pulled off from Alfred's front. The gel is wiped off, his clothes put back on. Alfred's breath comes in chunks and the doctor says nothing for a few solid minutes.

"Mister Jones," the technician begins, "based off of your medical history and our EKG results, you should be fine. We're looking out for a PVC, but you didn't give us one." The technician clears his throat and readjusts his scrubs. "Long story short, you have a typical A-fib arrhythmia. So, lucky for you, that's benign." A plastic smile but sincere words. "Unluckily for you, we're going to stuff you full of pills over the next few weeks."

Alfred is smiling as takes the written prescription. Benign, that's a safe word. An Arthur word, but still a safe word. He folds the paper in his hands and exits the throat of the hospital. He goes to the pharmacy, picks up the dump of pills, and zips up his jacket. The December light is cutting in the cleared sky and for a moment he looks around the hospital grounds. The first cold breath shocks his lungs. He leaves the establishment squinting like a newborn babe, waiting for the doctor to smack him into life.

* * *

Arthur's gift to Alfred on Christmas is a filled prescription for Maalox, magnesium supplements, and a bunch of green bananas. He takes all the coffee from the house (and replaces it with blue Gatorade or VitaminWater). He finds the bindings, the cold pills, the running shoes . . . Alfred watches, heels like a Scottish Deerhound (Arthur's favourite aside from Corgis) and placates Arthur with quiet obedience. His things are hidden under lock and key (he presumes) and Alfred suspects he will not be seeing them for quite sometime.

The cabinets open and close in a steady beat; a household pulse of a living foundation. Arthur goes through every crevice of the kitchen and unloads the meager food. Every nutrition box is analyzed and scrutinized, judged before the dreaded burning-copper gaze of Arthur Kirkland.

"I don't see why you have to terrorize my kitchen," Alfred says from his spot at the entrance.

"Don't think you can hide the EKG results and the prescriptions from me," Arthur warns over his shoulder. He shakes a box of crackers and turns it about. "Electrolyte imbalance, high sodium levels. You're killing yourself, you dolt."

"No need to get mean about it––"

Arthur sets the box down on the counter, bending the corner with excessive force. "Forgive me for not wanting you to suffer through a god-awful heart attack." He spits a bit with the interruption. He turns and bore those harsh eyes at Alfred's eyes (and his stubborn cowlick).

Alfred averts his gaze and stays quiet. Arthur continues: "I try to pardon your stupidity, boy, but sometimes it proves detrimental to others aside yourself." Arthur's face is flushing with indignation and just pent up _feelings_.

"Sorry?" Alfred is venturing to dissolve the fog of tension that overlays them. Frustrated hypnogogia, perhaps? He's slipping . . .

"Sorry? _Sorry?" _Arthur's become a porpentine once more. "How about a 'thank you,' you sodding excuse for a man!" The carton of crackers is compacting under a bony hand. "As much as I hate to say it, Ivan's a smart bastard for heeding my god_damned _advice and getting out of here while he still can."

There is silence. Not even the icemaker within the drawer freezer kicks on; there is a hush and a flutter as Arthur blinks back his gaze. That's right, Ivan's gone . . . well he must be, since he's not been around lately. Well, if he's left then, maybe, no – nothing's wrong, is it? He didn't even say goodbye. Alfred slips farther down and he feels his fingertips fall off the ledge one by one.

"Honestly, Alfred, what else do you expect me to do in this situation?" Arthur's retired somewhat but the quills are still there. He's baring his teeth somewhat while Alfred worries his lip. Arthur sighs and chucks the cracker box across the room onto the dinning table.

"I––I don't know," Alfred says. It's more of a whimper than anything and it trembles down his body and deep into his gut. His weakened heart churns inside his chest but does not misfire (thank god for that). Alfred turns away along the doorframe and brings his hand to his mouth, chewing lightly on the meat of his thumb.

Both of them feel the familiar squeeze of muscles and lymph nodes in the backs of their throats. The starts of their tongues tingle and twitch while their jaws simultaneously clench down. Bones creak and eyelashes bat away saline spurts. A cast of light from the kitchen's bay window forms a line of symmetry that the two men unconsciously reflect.

Alfred lets out a strained sort of cry (a drowned snake comes to mind in the sense of the sound) and turns his face further away from Arthur's burning eyes. Chinking and sharp intakes of breath chew through the air of the house. Alfred tries to form words. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. I – You're not going to _leave_ me, are you? I – I can't, I can't do this one my own, I'll . . ." He makes a sort of repressed wet cracking noise and _shakes_ through every cell membrane in his body. Still Arthur says nothing and Alfred feels like letting go completely right then and there. "I don't feel well," and so he excuses himself.

Alfred gets up from the dusty floor (that Arthur keeps tutting him about) and fumbles away down the hall and hides in the half-bath. He gasps in four, five giant breaths and holds onto the sink. "Oh god," he whispers. Alfred hiccups and jolts with the sudden intakes, his diaphragm seemingly uncontrollable. Briefly he thinks about his heart and the alterations to its beat. "I'm killing myself," he admits. "I'm––oh god, I'm dying––"

He leans into the sink and dry-heaves with every muscle in his gut. His tongue tries to stretch out of his throat as loads of gases and snippets of voice come out. Eyes shut, hands clamp, neck gives to the strain of bearing the sickness. Over and over he tries to expel something, but each time his stomach rejects him. (No, self-slaughter will not be occurring here, god damn it.)

The cry that comes from Alfred's very being is nothing short of a wrenching sob. He sputters, tries to hold it back, but his muscle memory is stronger and soon he is heaving and erupting with wails. He can't gasp air or swallow saliva and he ends up spitting up his self-hatred into the sink before him. He's wet all over and it hurts, hurts down into his lungs that burn for him to breathe properly and into his heart that is holding on for dear life to beat at a steady tempo. Alfred tries to close his mouth but only end up adding a '_ck, ck, ck,'_tail to his fluctuating warble.

His face in the worn mirror's reflection is ruddy and shockingly real. Cut out cheek bones, high-rise temples and hairline; his skin is red and grating against his muscles. Opaque teeth and bleeding gums from too much brushing and not enough nutrition. If Alfred were to get a facial peel his very identity would be sure to fall off.

Sadly, this image is not something Alfred has been blissfully unaware of. Everyday he stares this visage in the eye, poking and prodding at it, waiting for the trepidation to leave its features. Alfred is stretched over his own ambition, and he doesn't seem to fit.

There are dulled thunking footsteps that come into Alfred's scope of hearing. Arthur, he's the only one who'd actually wear wool socks when the weather demands it. "Go––go _away_, Arthur," he hisses. (Oh, two can play at this game, mister Kirkland.)

There (of course) is no response, only another deeper thunk as Arthur (presumably) sits upon the base of the door, his form blocking out the yellow line of light at the joint. Alfred's face is still wet and runny all over, but makes no move to wipe any of it off. He yanks open the door. "Can I help you?" he shoots.

Arthur, caught of guard, makes to his feet with a start. His brows are still furrowed but his eyes are not as cutting as before. Mercy thy name is an Englishman's decorum. Some sort of bodily fluid drops off Alfred's chin and onto the joint of the floor between them. The line of symmetry has followed them and still plays true to its nature. Arthur looks Alfred in the eye for one or two scalding moments then turns and looks down the hall. An eyelash is stuck on his cheek and Alfred (though embittered) wipes it off.

"Alfred . . ." The two look at one another (draw their swords and shoot each other? No, perhaps later) and something just cracks into place. (Traitor traitor _traitor_. By god you're under the skin.) "I"m not a bastard," he asserts. The look he gets from a sopping Alfred is enough to warrant a clarification. "I'm not going to leave," he tuts.

* * *

"God, I have to piss like Seabiscuit." Alfred is sitting before his somewhat dated television and ridiculously new xBox 360. A fine prism of labels of various VitaminWaters and Gatorade string the floor like the indoor Christmas lights the Alfred advocated instead of a tree.

"Eloquent," Arthur replies. He sits off to the side finishing the green sweater he found the beginnings of in Alfred's amalgamated nest of a bedroom. The metal needles click in time with Alfred's fingers on his controller.

"Y'know, I try, just for you." He squirms in his seat, a sort of twenty-something-year-old version of a child's bathroom jig. "Oh Jesus." Alfred pauses the game and bolts down the hallway cupping his crotch. Door open, head thrown back, Alfred makes quite the spectacle of relieving his bladder with no shame whatsoever.

"At least close the door. God, that's crude." Arthur frowns. His face grows into a contented smirk (Arthur refuses to ever show his sentimental emotions whenever he can) as Alfred walks back, drying his hands on his pants.

"You've gained weight," he says.

"Yeah?" Alfred's face is a mixed drink of emotions, dry and smooth but bitter going down. His throat burns accordingly.

"Indeed. And looks––erm, appropriate." Oh, mister Kirkland, you could put mister Darcy to _shame_.

"'_Eloquent,_' Arthur," Alfred counters. He wears a half-frown.

"Shove off, I'm trying to compliment you." Arthur goes back to his sweater and grumbles something under his breath (most likely along the lines of fae folk or cross-stitching, oh god). "Matters aside, smashing."

"I'm going to pretend that's British for 'stud.'" Arthur shoots him a look and attempts to swallow a laugh.

Alfred abandons his game and walks into the kitchen. The refrigerator opens, closes, and a bag and bottle are set on the counter. A near-black VitaminWater is toted in his left hand, a flock of pills in his right. He sets them down in a nest next to a pine-scented candle. "These things taste like shit, you know?"

"You aren't supposed to chew them," chides Arthur.

"Yeah, well, maybe I want culinary adventure in my life." Alfred quirks an eyebrow and downs six pills at once. He chugs a third of his drink and sticks out his tongue in repulsion. He shudders. "Anything's better than the charcoal you force feed me. I'm surprised my gullet hasn't killed itself yet."

Arthur puffs out of his nose again, making like a lion more and more everyday. He puts away his knitting needles and turns into Alfred. He sits there letting out little bursts of_ prusten_, and snuggles (there really is no better word to substitute) into the wiry side of his companion. Slowly he rubs circles on Alfred's stomach. Arthur leans over Alfred's heart as if he is waiting to hear the next the fibrillation by some freak chance. His ear crowds a fleece pullover as he waits and listens.

Alfred fiddles with the cap of his bottle and squirms. Arthur, like a good house cat or whatnot, holds his ground, curls tighter, and sends a warning green glance up and beneath Alfred's glasses. The bruise on his face has tightened and distilled into a splotch of green and yellow (a spot of brown at the epicenter); the petechial hemorrhage has died off. White eyes, inky skin, and two ostensibly bright eyes look direct full attention to Alfred.

"Still ticking?" Alfred asks.

A small irregular bump worms past Arthur's ear. "Yes," he says, "in a sense."

"Heh. I do my best." Alfred turns feels his stomach grumble. Arthur's fingers tighten and Alfred's muscles flex. His heart misfires. Ivan, wherever he is, sends a warning glance in the direction of the house. A high-pitched creak catches the air and is almost unheard by the two men.

_Thump. Crack. _And the rest is silence.*

* * *

***Yet another quote from ****Hamlet.**

**I have to piss like Seabiscuit all the time. It's quite annoying.**

**Time jumps and sections of the story are omitted on purpose; I want you to think about this, not just read it on the screen. **

* * *

End.


End file.
